


Borrowed

by leo_lullaby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Caring!Dean, Caring!Sam, Crossover, Hurt!Sam, Major Character Injury, Minor Injuries, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Random demons, Worried!Steve, be careful if you get triggered friends, hurt!Dean, hurt!bucky, just a little, mild swearing, slight suicidal!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4448702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_lullaby/pseuds/leo_lullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows he can call on Bucky for a hunt. The former soldier is one of the best assassins in the world. But Bucky is still only used to fighting humans, and that lack of knowledge can get him in trouble when facing angered demons and their tricks.</p><p>EIGHTH chapter up now!</p><p>UPDATE: I'm not dead, I promise. More just facing moving, no wi-fi, midterms, and health problems. I am trying my bestest I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Plan

Bucky’s eyes are cold and lethal as he cocks the gun in his hands with deadly precision and swiftness. He does not as much as glance in the weapon shifting quickly under his fingers as he walks to Dean. Dean stares at the other man, a slight shiver running through him at the intensity of the man’s icy blue stare and silently thanking the fact that this was the man by his side going into this and not the one standing in the way.

Bucky is dressed in dark clothing, something Dean could swear is his uniform of some sort, but quickly corrects himself. The fabric of Bucky’s clothes is a thick and sturdy black canvas, but it covers all of his body and limbs. A jacket is thrown over his torso to ensure his arm is hidden. Dean finds himself forgetting more times than he would like to admit about Bucky’s arm, as the man keeps it covered as much as he possibly can. The only reminder that makes Dean’s eyes catch for a moment is the faint shine of the man’s left hand moving gracefully around the gun in his grip before tucking it into his waistband.

“Where is he?” Bucky’s voice is dead, blank, as he keeps up his even strides past Dean who automatically follows.

Dean’s chest swells slightly, liking the presence of another hunter he can trust. Well, not truly a hunter like he has come to define the term, but he knows that Bucky is one of the best trackers out there and can count on his loyalty.

“Cas said top floor, right wing, corner room.” Dean rattles off the information quickly as he tries to keep up with the former soldier’s swift pace.

Bucky’s analytical eyes quickly sweep the run-of-the-mill hotel. Six stories, front windows, no balcony, angled to keep any outside eyes from seeing the room. His gaze flicks to the right side of the building, scanning the windows.

“I can’t snipe it.” He mutters angrily, “Curtains are drawn.”

Dean almost stutters in his step in response to the comment as he watches the gears working in the slightly shorter man’s head beside him. He has seen Bucky during his “moments” before, caught up in memories, or even when he would close up simply by being surrounded by too many people, but this is a whole new side of the man. This is no longer simply another hunter standing next to him, or even a former soldier, no… this is a trained assassin striding purposefully with him.

“Cas can’t get in.” Bucky poses the comment as a statement, but Dean senses the underlying question there.

He has grown accustomed to Bucky being afraid to ask questions, especially to those the former soldier views as having more power in situations than him. It has been drilled into the man to be able to receive basic information and make what he gets work. The realization makes Dean’s mouth dry but he clears his throat to refocus. This is no longer about him urging Bucky to talk to him based on the respect he feels for the former soldier. No, now this is an assassin confirming facts about his mission.

“Right, the building is warded against angels. These demons know their crap.” Dean gives the answer and falters as the other man misses a step in his stealthy cadence and blinks.

Bucky’s eyes flutter slightly and he glances around the late night traffic of the road between the two of them and the hotel as if just realizing where they are. Just as fast as the moment came, he blinks and the cold cobalt gaze settles returns to his face.

“Are you good?” Dean asks seriously, raising his eyebrows at the man.

Bucky nods quickly and looks with the vision and precision of a sniper at the seemingly mundane building once more. His head is still reeling slightly from the situation. These are not men the two of them are facing. Bucky has learned some about angels, demons, and the like from the two Winchesters, but there is only so much he can wrap his head around at a time. No, he can’t think like this. These are just more targets, more bodies to hit the floor to complete a task. This is just another strike and rescue mission.

Lord knows he has completed many of those in his time.

“Yes.” Bucky exhales and clears his throat, “I apologize. Sometimes it just takes me a second to wrap my head around this.”

Dean scoffs lightly and shakes his head.

“Not a problem, buddy. I’m already surprised how open and quick to pick all this up you are.”

A barely-there smirk pulls at Bucky’s lip and he straightens up, feeling his muscles start to hum with nervous energy and anticipation. He absent-mindedly checks the knife secured to his hip before looking the hotel over once more.

“I know it is warded against some crazy crap, so they have no idea what we will throw at them, but they think they are ready.” Dean mutters.

The building looks innocent enough, but Dean has told him in the past how all of this activity involving angels and demons and spirits and what else have you is often invisible to people, people who did not grow up looking for it and fighting it in the world, people like Bucky who were fighting a whole different war with another one sitting under his nose.

“I’ve seen weirder.” He mutters lowly and glances sideways at the older Winchester.

Dean lets out a half-laugh and claps Bucky on the shoulder. He feels the hard surface and the slight thud makes him jump slightly in surprise. Again, he will never get used to that.

Bucky stiffens faintly and exhales sharply through his nose, the contact sending his brain back into work mode. Dean lowers his hand, watching the other man cautiously for any signs of any consuming mental relapse. Finding none, Dean relaxes slightly and checks his own weapon before stowing it away. He glances at Bucky once more who is standing there silently, his gaze fixed and body tense in the way showing he is waiting to spring.

“Alright tin man, let’s go get my brother.” Dean mutters and glances at the traffic before weaving through cars with Bucky on his heels.

Bucky snorts softly at the nickname and keeps his eyes moving and analyzing on passing faces as he follows Dean.

“You go in through the front. The man to your right reading the paper right now,” Dean looks through the side window of the lobby to see a guy sitting where Bucky describes, “He will follow you in the elevator, pushing for the fifth floor on accident and claiming it is fatigue from the conference he just attended that sprung him the deluxe rooms on the top floor.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly as he looks to Bucky next to him who recites the information with serious ease, still scanning every possible face available for him to see through the window.

“He will be buying time to alert the others in the room that you are here. Don’t let him get the upper hand on you, but let him send the message so they do not advance against your brother. The signal is his phone. One he pockets the phone, take him out. I’ll need you to get into the far corner room on your own, but the man will likely have a key card. Check his shoes.”

Bucky pauses, pulling the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth in thought, “I apologize again. I know it’s not the best plan, but I will need you to get a bit of a distraction at the door so I can go through the window-”

“Not the best plan? Buck, this is more of a plan than I’ve ever had.” Dean interrupts with a quick glance at the man seated inside.

Bucky looks to him and actually offers a small, sly smile. “I will grab your brother and take down the remaining others.”

Bucky is scanning silently up the side of the building, arms hanging by his sides in anticipation and tension. Dean glances at the man and sighs softly.

“Buck, you know these are demons, right? Bullets won’t send them back down.” Dean warns gravely and watches as Bucky’s jaw tightens and he nods once, his eyes dropping to the floor.

Bucky lets his head follow his gaze to bow his head slightly. He feels his heartbeat quicken slightly at the comment but he quickly regains control of himself. He was not trained to fight these creatures, Dean was. It does not surprise the former soldier that the man is worried about his abilities.

“I can disable the men keeping your brother hostage, but then I will need your help. I apologize I am not more trained in this area, but I can get Sam to safety.” Bucky speaks the words almost mechanically with his body frozen, head lowered in regret and disgrace, and muscles stilled as he waits for further instructions.

Dean puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder once more, expecting the hard contact this time and keeping the touch gentle and supportive. Of course the man would be apologizing about something like this.

“Buck, its fine, let’s just go and get him out of there before they feel like I’ve kept them waiting too long. I’ll meet you up there.” Bucky nods, posture relaxing slightly with Deans words.

He feels his brain clear to focus on the task at hand. He takes a measured breath, feeling the anxious energy running through every nerve in his body and making his senses sharp. He is about to slip into the familiar shadows around the side of the building when Dean calls to him once more. Bucky pauses, his posture automatically becoming rigid and obedient. He swallows down the familiar fear rising in his throat and looks back at the hunter, cold blue eyes piercing and focused.

“If you do run into trouble, use this.” Dean throws the assassin one of the flasks of holy water from his jacket. “It will help slow them down if nothing else.”

Bucky catches it easily, the weight unfamiliar in his palm. He looks down at the silver bottle matching the silver of his fingers as both faintly glow beneath the dim street lights. Bucky flips the object in his hand once and frowns at the flask in confusion.

“I know you are an alcoholic, Dean,” Bucky’s stony cobalt eyes flicker up to the other man, “But this is ridiculous.”

“It’s _holy water,_ smartass, you throw it at them.” Dean growls with a smirk as the familiar brotherly banter both relaxes his frayed nerves and snaps his focus back on the problem at hand, “Now go climb a building or whatever, I’ll see you up there.”

“Ten minutes,” Bucky replies coldly and slips away without another sound.

Dean exhales deeply, shaking his head slightly. He knows is being expected. He knows that when those bastards arrived on their hunt that this changed to become personal. But he is so sick of these mind games they play, especially when they take Sam in the process. Weak spots and all that, it still pisses him off. Those bastards know it, use it to their advantage, and it still gets under his skin every single time.

Dean clears his throat and forces a casual but vaguely tense posture into his muscles and pushes the front door open. The cold glass against his palm is cold from the night chill and grounds him. He channels the nervous energy that always seeps in when he is looking for his brother, also aware he is being observed.

It is a nice change to have someone who could spot all of these critical details and clue him in with no more than a simple glance instead of him jumping in head-first like normal.


	2. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who showed interest! Here is the next part, we finally get past all of the exposition and into the nitty gritty.

Dean scopes out the first floor like he normally would in this situation and glances at the front desk, looking over the woman at the computer behind it. He forces a charming smile on his face and leans over the counter, running his tongue over the bottom of his lip. She glances up at him and does a small double-take after seeing his entrancing green eyes focused solely on her.

“Hello sir, checking in?” She asks sweetly and tucks a strand of her straight blonde hair behind her ear.

No wedding ring. Dean chuckles once and lets his eyes wander over her before offering another smile. This is familiar territory now. This he can do.

“Nah sweetheart, I’m just here to see a friend. I was wondering what floor he was on?” He asks with a sly voice, aware in the back of his mind of the man seated in the lobby reading and shifting in his seat.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that kind of information, sir.” She exhales an exaggerated pout and looks up at him with wide, apologetic eyes.

Dean offers her a bright smile and winks. This he can do in his sleep.

“That’s fine sweetheart, I’ll search the floors until I find him. He’s probably on the upper floors anyways, he’s got the dough and we are both here for the conference.” Dean leans an elbow on the counter, mentally trying to time all of this and not seem too obvious.

Her eyes brighten suddenly and she smiles. Now that he has made himself connected to the higher-ups, he can see the restraint leaving her gaze.

“Oh, he is here for the Wesson conference? He must be on the top floor then; that is where all of our event members stay. I can’t give you a key without him being here, but I can tell you he is going to be on the sixth floor, most likely on the right side when you exit the elevator. You are here for the conference as well?” He eyes are shining now.

Dean smiles and nods, leaning forward on both forearms propped against the desk. Her eyes scan over his jacket and jeans and a small look of confusion reaches her eyes. Her glossed lips part to question but Dean beats her to the chase.

“I was just going to grab him so we could both go and blow off some steam. It’s been a long day.” He pauses, seeing her sympathetic nod and cranking up the slyness in his smile.

“You know of any good places to get a drink in this town? Perhaps we could use a tour guide, Lord knows our business makes enough to have one night of fun.” The girl blushes and fumbles with her skirt slightly, a smile on her face and eyes wide with arousal.

She looks up at him and leans forward a little more over her desk towards him.

“I am working tonight until eleven, but when you two come down later I will give you a map and some directions.” Dean lets his eyes rake slowly over her once more and bites his lip before settling on her face once more.

Her guard is down and her eyes are slightly glazed. Perfect.

“Thanks doll, we’ll see you then.” Dean says in a low voice and winks at her again.

He slowly slides away from the counter and heads for the elevator, aware of the girl’s eyes on him as he walks away. He hesitates for a step but quickly brushes it off as he sees the same man in the suit standing and waiting for the elevator, newspaper tucked under his arm holding a briefcase and phone in his other hand. He is texting and gives Dean no recognition as he types away on his phone. The doors ding open and the man steps in without looking. Dean follows swiftly, glancing back quickly and feeling relieved that no one else decided to take this elevator ride.

The man hits the button to the fifth floor with the edge of his briefcase, still texting on his phone. Dean has to suppress a grin at the action and quickly drops the emotion from his face when the other man glances up and swears under his breath. He pockets his cell phone and hits the button to the sixth floor. He looks over at Dean, sizing up the younger man dressed casually with a snarl.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day.” He apologizes with a bitter tone towards Dean.

Dean lets the man’s tone roll of his shoulder and gives a small, dismissive shrug, aware he does not seem professional in his casual attire. He tucks his hands away in the pockets of his jeans and lets his muscles relax slightly with a tired sigh.

“I understand. I was just able to change myself. So, are you here for the Wesson conference as well?” He asks casually.

The man in the suit stiffens slightly and scans Dean over with a new look in his eyes. His eyes linger on Dean’s face turned towards the front at the closing doors, obviously trying to place his face. The man nods dumbly, a look of confusion passing over his eyes.

“I apologize; I must have missed you today. I’m Rob, Rob Carter.” He holds his hand to shake and Dean takes it.

“Phil Lesley,” Dean replies with a small smile, trying to keep his face from giving away any tell.

The man nods and settles back slightly, buying Dean’s innocence.

“So Phil, what company are you here for?” The man asks, trying to catch Dean off guard in his lie as the elevator dings and passes the second floor.

“Oh it’s just a small business, but it’s growing like a weed. It’s just my partner and I who run it.” Dean leans back against the side of the elevator as the other man types absently on his phone, this time putting down the newspaper and freeing both hands, and gives a slight nod of recognition before putting the phone away once more.

“How’s it doing then?” The man asks with a new air of defense about him.

“Well its smooth sailing right now, the two of us are pretty in tune for what we want. The other owner is my brother of course, so that helps.” With the comment the atmosphere in the small space immediately changes.

The man turns to face Dean fully, his posture growing to the man’s full height as his muscles tense. Dean stares at the man with a slight, smug grin and whips out the demon knife from his back pocket as soon as the man makes a move, his muscles begging to react. The man’s eyes suddenly flicker to black and he growls, gaze flickering from the knife to Dean’s face and back again.

“I thought I had you there for a minute. You sure are getting sharp, Winchester.” The demon wearing the man sneers.

Dean gives a small shrug and smirks, “I wish I was.”

The demon lunges at him and Dean quickly sidesteps. He feels the demon’s hands on his shoulder throwing him back into the wooden side of the elevator with strength beyond a human. The polished surface bends and splinters slightly beneath his weight and Dean winces slightly before gritting his teeth and inhaling sharply. His nerves are on fire and he lets his body work on instinct. Dean quickly spins and ducks from the man’s grip, pushing up to his feet and thrusting the knife into the man’s gut with a grunt. He watches as the red sparks illuminate the veins of the man’s skin until they flicker out and the man slumps in his grip.

Dean leans the man against the juncture where the two walls meet and feels for a pulse with his free hand, not surprised to feel the man’s skin is cold and lifeless. It probably has been for days now based on the blue tinge to the man’s pallor.

“Come on, buddy.” Dean groans under the man’s weight as he shifts to pocket the knife and readjust the man’s suit jacket to button up over the small bloodstain in his abdomen.

“Look drunk for me.” He mutters and throws the man’s arm around his shoulder.

Dean shifts awkwardly to kick the other man’s shoe off and sure enough, a key card tumbles out of the leather. Dean releases a laugh of disbelief before bending with the man’s heavy weight slumped against him to grab the card as the elevator dings for the fifth floor and opens. Dean’s head whips up in reaction but freezes when he sees a woman slumped into a seated position against the wall, a collar of bruises around her neck and her skin still smoking slightly beneath crystal droplets. Her chest rattles with forced gasps, her body showing brief signs of regaining consciousness.

“Son of a bitch,” A small smile of incredulity spreads on Dean’s lips as the elevator door dings and closes.

He straightens up, lifting the man with him, as the elevator ascends to the next floor. It dings once more and Dean stumbles as he exits the small area, the man heavier than he was when they were stationary. Dean walks slowly down the hallway to the corner room, glancing to make sure the number matches the card in his free hand, and unlocks it with no difficulties. He kicks the door open after the padlock beeps and drops the man to the carpet in a heap.

“I come bearing gifts,” Dean gives a cold smile as the man falls limply from his arms.

Instantly three new pairs of black eyes are on him and Dean quickly sizes them up. All men, one in a business suit, one in a hotel uniform, and one in jeans and a tight muscle shirt, glare at him. They take their turns looking down at the motionless form of their dead partner and then returning to glare at the hunter with a new fire in their eyes.

“Oh come on boys, I couldn’t show up to a party empty handed.” Dean shrugs slightly with a smile.

“Winchester,” The broad man in the tight shirt snarls his name and looks him over.

He suddenly relaxes slightly, letting a smirk pull at his lips.

“Good on you boy, I was afraid you were losing your touch.”

Dean smirks, “Who, me? That could never happen.”

He quickly glances around the room.

“Now where’s my brother, Hasselhoff? That’s why you wanted me to stop by, isn’t it?”

The large man smiles darkly and jerks his head towards the small bathroom.

“He’s busy taking a swim right now.”

Dean’s blood runs cold and he freezes. He listens intently for any sounds from the small area across the room and faintly hears water running. He swallows dryly and grits his jaw. Surely Bucky would figure out his brother’s situation before it was too late, where the hell was he anyways? Was dropping a dead man at the front door not distraction enough?

“But, you see, we are willing to let Sammy go if you take a trip with us.” Dean sighs tightly and takes out the demon knife from his pocket.

“You bastards are all the same,” He grouses angrily and rolls his eyes.

The large man opens his mouth to respond but is distracted by the sound of coughing coming from the bathroom. Dean’s strained ears no longer pick up the sound of running water, but ragged breathing. Coughing is breathing nonetheless.

The fear slowly seeps from Dean’s muscles to leave anxious tension that makes him grip the knife tighter in his fingers. Hasselhoff looks at the man dressed in the suit and jerks his head towards the bathroom with frustration. The second demon nods with the same confusion and turns towards the smaller room just as the door slams open and silenced gunshots fire in rapid succession. The demon stumbles back from the impact and not a second later Bucky is on the man, legs wrapped around his waist to give him more height and hands viciously turning his head at an angle to produce a sharp, resounding crack. The man’s muscles go slightly limp beneath him and that is all reprieve that Bucky needs.

“What the hell is this?!” Hasselhoff growls and turns for Bucky as the demon in the uniform charges Dean.

Dean is snapped out of his slight dumbfounded gaze and refocuses on the demon in front of him. He quickly avoids the man’s right hook and stabs the blade into his shoulder, enjoying the fizzling sparks that crackle through his body as the demon smokes out. He looks up again as Bucky avoids one of the muscular demon’s trained punches and shifts to kick the man whose neck he just snapped over in Dean’s direction. The demon stumbles, obviously frustrated with the damage done against his meat suit, and barely fights as Dean swiftly stabs the flailing demon.

“You guys are getting too easy,” He mutters with a small sneer and throws the man’s body aside.

Dean’s gaze snaps up once more to see Bucky fighting the other demon, feeling surprise and worry both flowing through him in thick currents. The assassin is smaller in his build, leaner, but much quicker and more precise. The demon barely gets in a kick to Bucky’s stomach and Bucky swiftly responds by throwing the remainder of his holy water in the man’s face. Bucky’s intense eyes do not waver as he watches the man’s skin sizzle dead doll eyes narrow in anger.

“Bucky!” Dean calls over to him and is about to toss the demon knife when arms wrap him from behind and restrain him.

Bucky’s gaze shifts when he hears his name and widen slightly as a young woman who he believes should not be able to seize a man of Dean’s size and strength does so efficiently. All of his trained readings of opponents are off when dealing with these demons and it makes his head spin.

Dean struggles and thrashes to the side, pulling at his arms crossed unwillingly over his chest and throwing his head in attempts to break a nose but finding no bone to contact with. He twists his neck to look over his shoulder and sees the blonde receptionist sneering up at him with black eyes.

“Hey _sweetheart,”_ She growls, “You are so predictable.”

The demon’s strength courses through her small body and efficiently throws him across the room and into the nightstand with a thud. She then whistles and two more men enter the room, quickly taking in the scene and moving to stand behind her. Dean groans and finds his feet, slowly looking up at the woman’s face with disgust. He spits out the blood flowing from the cut in his lip and scowls.

“No offense _doll,_ but you are a _bitch.”_ Dean growls and looks over the cronies with a snarl.

Bucky continues to fight against the large demon hand-to-hand until he is able to maneuver to get a moment of space. He quickly discharges the remainder of his rounds into the man’s broad chest, brain ticking and counting with precision as he hits both of the man’s lungs and then his heart. The demon continues towards him in a large mass of muscle, barely affected at all as blood flows from the three new wounds.

Bucky throws the weapon away with a frustrated snarl. He swiftly dodges another strong punch and kicks out against the man’s chest. It is like kicking a wall and Bucky uses his momentum to grab for the man’s neck. He finds purchase and throws his body to the side, taking the man’s head with him. The crack sends a small wave of relief through him until the demon grabs him again and slams him against the ground.

The larger man sneers down at him and is about to send a harsh kick to Bucky’s ribs when the assassin rolls to the side and springs up. He fluidly unsheathes his knife and stabs it into the juncture of the demon’s shoulder, twisting and hearing a faint pop but feeling no relief this time as the man barely even reacts other than a step to the side and another thrown fist.

Dean gets to his feet with a small wince, realizing that the bruising has likely already started to form across his back from hitting the nightstand. A predatory gaze settles in his eyes as he sizes up the three demons in front of him. He reaches for the demon knife in his pocket, a sliver of fear running through him as he sees the blade on the floor from where he dropped it mid-flight. He suddenly grabs his own flask of holy water and charges the woman, slamming the liquid down her throat before she can leave more than another bruise on his jaw before stumbling back and choking. Her hands go to her throat as he body sizzles from the inside out. Dean quickly assesses the two other demons in the room, seeing them both in hotel staff uniforms and hoping there are no more crawling around nearby waiting to be called.

He eyes the knife again warily and lunges for it. As soon as his fingers are around the hilt, he feels one of the men on him and flips to his back, stabbing upward at the same time. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and hears the demon dying from the blade. He throws the body off of him and he is instantly pinned by another, larger weight to the floor. His wrists slam into the hard ground and he exhales bluntly, feeling the knife falling from his fingers once more as his muscles spasm in pain. Dean struggles under the demon that snarls down at him with anger in his black eyes and looks around in hopes for a second option. He looks to Bucky in desperation.

Bucky staggers back, looking at this large man still charging him with strength beyond human limits after being killed by the assassin’s standards three different times now. Bucky glances at Dean once the man hits the ground and his senses go in overdrive, analyzing the new demon pinning the man to the floor. His eyes flicker to the blade that falls from Dean’s fingers. He has seen it before in the Winchesters’ possession and thought it nothing more than an odd antique knife. Now he knows it is the weapon he needs.

The large demon steps up to him again and Bucky deflects his kick and hooking punch. What surprises him is when the man opens his mouth to produce thick, black smoke. Bucky hesitates for just a second in surprise and instantly the man’s strong hand is clutching his throat. Bucky hits at sensitive pressure points and pops joints but the grip does not loosen by any increment. What sends a new wave of fear through him is when the man’s other hand grabs his jaw, prying his mouth open and allowing the smoke in.

Bucky coughs against the thick intrusion to his airway, tasting the soot and smelling something foul and dark, was that _sulfur?_

Dean grunts as the demon rams his head down against the hunters, causing his vision to blur and sway. The demon roughly grabs him and manhandles him into the chair beside the room’s desk, punching him swiftly in the nose to make his vision blur further and head swim once more. He feels restraints being put around his wrists and struggles to no avail. Dean tries to kick at the man but that provides just as little success. He blinks away the fog in his head and spits out the blood running into his mouth from his nose. He growls and looks around in frustration between winces as he feels his wrists starting to burn and swell under the tight binds and his stomach drops.

“Buck, get the blade!” Dean calls and looks over and cuts himself off at the sight.

The smoke leaves Hasselhoff entirely and the large man slumps to the floor, dead. Bucky’s mouth closes once the smoke fully enters his system. His blue eyes are wide and frightened as he watches the large man finally fall motionless in front of him due to the many wounds inflicted, the monstrous fight suddenly gone from his large muscles. Bucky takes a shaky step backwards.

What did he do differently? How did he finally bring the demon down? Is Dean is calling him…?

He can’t breathe. There is not enough room in his body.

Bucky groans and his hands go to his head as his face contorts in pain. He claws roughly at his scalp, his hair tangling between his fingers. The sting does not even register over the burning in his chest. He is choking on something, and it makes him shake when he cannot place the bitter taste on his tongue. He stumbles back until his back slams into the wall. The only reason he can sense the impact is due to the sound.

He can’t feel his limbs. His eyes are squeezed shut and the darkness is too bright and red to be the familiar blackness behind his eyelids. Bucky blinks quickly, trying to clear his vision and breathe through a closing throat.

Dean watches in horror as scared, crystal blue becomes replaced by dark, lifeless black. Bucky suddenly freezes, standing to his full height. An unfamiliar smirk of content and approval spreads across his lips and makes Dean’s heart skip a fearful beat.

The demon looks down at Bucky’s strong body in admiration, shifting each of the muscles slightly and getting used to the feel of the assassin.

“Oh… it’s a _gold mine_ in here.” The demon looks up to meet Dean’s fearful gaze and smiles broadly.


	3. Flicker

The grin alone on Bucky’s normally stoic face sends a nervous pang up Dean’s spine. His mouth is bone dry and he tries to slow down his nervous breathing, wanting to be as calm as possible. Regret poisons his veins and he shakes his head slightly.

“I’m so sorry, Buck. We should have warded you from them.” Dean’s voice cracks slightly as he searches the familiar face in silent desperation.

“Buck?” The demon repeats the word and feels how it forms on his tongue as it tips its head in playful thought and looks to the ground in relaxed contemplation, wracking the memories filed away in his meat suit’s brain.

“Buck... Bucky. James Buchanan Banes, sergeant even, he served in…” The eyebrows slowly meet together in confusion and the demon suddenly winces.

The demon’s muscles shake and he looks down at his hands in confusion. All of the nerves composing his new meat suit are shaking and he can’t control it.

“What the _hell-?”_

The demon suddenly gasps and falls to his knees. His is on his hands and knees, posture deflated and muscles trembling. Bucky’s head jerks up and he looks around the room fearfully. His eyes are the normal crystal blue, but are blown wide in shock. He gulps down air like a suffocating man and scans the room, rapidly gathering information. His eyes fall on Dean, who mirrors his surprise, and flicker to the other demon standing in front of the hunter.

The demon in uniform swears loudly and cusses at Bucky violently as he approaches the shaking man, his tie job with Dean now done. Bucky looks up at the unknown man, quickly realizing the shining black of the man’s eyes, and pushes off of his arms, trying to get off his knees. He throws a precise but weakened hit at the demon. The man quickly deflects it and grabs Bucky’s throat, lifting him slightly as he chokes him. Bucky coughs and gasps in air once more, one of his hands going to both of the demon’s crushing his windpipe with a force greater than any human could administer.

Dean cries out his name and pulls at the tight bonds, feeling them rubbing into his skin and not loosening at all. Bucky suddenly shifts and the hunter freezes in disbelief. Bucky’s leg, now slightly able to extend from his uncomfortable half-kneeling position, shoots out behind him. His boot catches on the discarded demon knife and he slides it up into his free hand. Bucky acts on automatic muscle movement as he stares at the demon cursing him out and demanding what kind of power he was using against his boss, shaking him and forcing more air from his already painfully tight and burning chest.

Bucky swiftly grabs the knife and stabs it into the demon’s abdomen. He watches in muted horror as red, glowing veins crawl up the man and he collapses backwards with a pained cry. Bucky quickly withdraws the blade from the man’s lifeless body and sinks back onto his knees. He gulps down air with a fire scorching in his chest and blinks rapidly. He can feel his heartrate at a record high and his brain spinning from some kind of foreign nausea. His vision pulses into darkness for a second and he frantically shakes his head.

This is no time to go into shock.

Bucky sways slightly and forces his eyes to tick across the room to meet Dean’s. Dean stares at Bucky in disbelief and swallows down the nervous lump in his throat. He tries to talk and feels his dry throat crack slightly.

“Buck, are you alright?” Dean asks cautiously.

Bucky looks over at the sound of Dean’s voice, his torso swaying slightly from the movement. He blinks owlishly at Dean’s restraints and then slowly lets his eyes fall to the knife in his hand. Why is his brain processing everything so slowly…?

He has no time for this.

Bucky suddenly stumbles up to his feet and steps towards Dean. His muscles are shaking violently and a cold sweat breaks out over his body. His breathing is nothing more than shallow pants that make his head spin and revolt against consciousness.

“Bucky?” Dean asks seriously, seeing the obviously struggling man.

Bucky watches Dean’s intense green eyes with slight confusion. His vision is fuzzy and sways slightly. His head feels like it is being split open and his body feels like it will tear apart from the unfamiliar building pressure. Bucky’s body suddenly wilts, boneless, and he staggers sideways to collapse halfway onto one of the beds. Dean screams his name at him, jerking at his bound wrists and ankles in desperation.

Bucky suddenly shifts and gets to his feet, standing tall and confident. He pauses for a minute, feeling all of his muscles working. He slowly brushes himself off with thick appreciation and looks up to Dean with a sickeningly pleased smile. His eyes are black once more and Dean feels his heart rise to his throat.

 _“Bucky_ here is such a joyride,” The demon smiles brightly.

The demon looks down to the blade still gripped tightly in his hand and suddenly throws it to the ground as if it bit him. He watches the blade tumble across the carpet before looking once more down at the skilled hands now at his disposal.

“We can’t have _that_ now, can we?” Bucky’s voice is so happy it hurts Dean’s ears.

He quickly looks Dean up and down and smiles wider. The action looks so foreign it makes Dean stiffen automatically and pull once more at his bound limbs. The demon sighs and flexes his hands in admiration.

“Isn’t this so much _fun,_ Dean? You all tied up for me, your brother unconscious and probably suffocating in the bathroom, and I get you _both._ Your new pet is a treat. Like I said, gold mine,” He taps a finger to his forehead and walks over to take the bathroom doorknob into his hand and slam the door closed, dislodging Bucky’s discarded knife from his former host’s body and using it to twist the old lock a certain way before tossing it back over his shoulder carelessly.

“See, _I_  would have never known to do that. But _Bucky…”_ The demon trails off with a sigh and approaches Dean with a skip in his step and arms clasped neatly behind his back.

“Let him go, you bastard.” Dean snarls, “He has nothing to do with this. He is only here because I brought him in. He means nothing to you.”

“Oh Dean,” The demon says fondly with a large laugh, his head thrown back slightly and showing his teeth in a wide smile.

He inhales with another chuckle and hops over to stand in front of Dean and lean down to get face-to-face with the bound hunter. From this close Dean can see the bruises and cuts on Bucky’s face from the fight with the demon currently riding his body. The false joy pulls Bucky’s muscles into a smile that Dean wishes was genuine, but this contortion instead makes him sick to his stomach.

“That is what happens to _everyone_ you come into contact with. You never mean for them to get hurt, but,” The demon shrugs, black eyes glinting, and beams once more, “It always happens.”

Dean swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth and looks at Bucky with regret and sorrow. God, the guy didn’t need any more pain and loss of control in his life, and Dean dragged him straight into it.

The demon straightens up and frowns down at Dean in mock sympathy, “Aw, you feel bad for Jimmy here, is that it?”

“Buck, if you can hear me, I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Dean ignores the demon’s comment and looks into the black eyes seriously, searching and hoping.

The demon suddenly laughs again, head thrown back and eyes crinkling at the edges. A sharp pang shoots through Dean’s chest as he realizes this is probably how the man used to laugh long before his mind and body were taken away from him. Dean swallows roughly once more, tasting the coppery warmth on his tongue from the blood slowly lessening from his nose along with the bitterness of guilt and sympathy.

The demon stares down at Dean’s hard but slightly emotional gaze and scoffs once at how easily he was getting to the hunter using this random meat suit. The demon can feel another presence pushing at him, which is an odd and slightly unsettling sensation that he tries to shove aside. He can taste the palpable sympathy Bucky must be feeling towards the hunter and the fear makes him sigh with delight.

“That’s so sweet Dean, really, but I can tell you he sees your pain. And guess what?” The demon suddenly leans in close and gives a mocking sneer, shifting so his breath tickles Dean’s ear, “He doesn’t care.”

Dean closes his eyes and exhales deeply through his nose, feeling his chest tighten with remorse and nauseating sorrow rising in his throat.

“That’s not true.” It is the same voice, Dean realizes, but the chiding tone is completely gone.

His eyes flicker open and he looks up to see Bucky dazedly shifting away from him. His eyes are blue and wide and Dean has never seen anything better. Bucky looks at Dean’s restraints quickly before meeting the man’s eyes and shakes his head. His eyes are wide and afraid, swimming with apologies and concern.

“Dean, that’s not… not…” Bucky swallows shakily and stumbles sideways before catching himself roughly on the nearby desk.

His chest feels like the world decided to rest on it and he is panting harshly. Bucky stares down at his hands pressed against the wooden surface. His fingers are shaking and their outlines are fuzzy but he can tell that they are his own hands. He clenches at the wood and his muscles obey. His head will not stop spinning and he wants to throw up and pass out all at once.

“Bucky, look at me, _please.”_ Dean urges with as calm a voice as he can, watching Bucky’s trembling frame fearfully.

Dean’s voice is muffled behind the pounding in Bucky’s ears, but he can hear it. The sympathy there makes his heart lurch and he swallows down ash. He needs to get Dean out. He could not kill the demons and he let them do this. He needs to save Dean and Sam. His head whips to find Dean’s gaze and he stares intently.

How the hell could he say something that _heartless_ to the hunter whose life he just compromised?

“I need you to get me out, and then I will take care of it all. I promise, alright?” Dean speaks evenly and watches Bucky’s face for any signs of comprehension.

Bucky searches his concentrated gaze and feels another wave of guilt and remorse flood through his system. It feeds the dark pressure in his chest and he tries to swallow down the bitter cinders in his throat. His voice is shaky and coarse when he finally finds it.

“Dean, you ha-have to know that-that what he said, no, what… _I_  said, that’s not…” Bucky shakes his head against the fog creeping in and looks to Dean in fear.

Dean can see the internal fight in Bucky and licks his lips nervously. The man is shaking and pale as a sheet with wide, glassy eyes desperate to apologize for something Dean would never blame him for. Dean clears his throat and meets his eyes with a new focus.

“Bucky, look man, I know, alright? I just need you to stay with me for two minutes, can you do that?” Dean watches him urgently.

Bucky tries to swallow again, grimaces, and the suddenly nods quickly. He looks down at his trembling arms and pushes himself upright. His posture is loose and quivering as he walks but he manages to sway towards Dean, stumbling once but catching himself, and automatically apologizing under his breath. His step is uneven and he unsteadily trips again as he makes his way over. He falls to one knee by Dean’s arm and starts pulling at the rope and knots there, getting nowhere with his shaking fingers.

“The knife, Buck,” Dean instructs gently but urgently, biting his tongue nervously at how much the man is struggling.

The command snaps his mind onto another track and his eyes flutter slightly. Bucky automatically apologizes again and leans back onto his knees. His head is spinning and playing tricks with the colors of the room. He feels his chest heaving but blinks and staggers to his feet, quickly searching the floor for the weapon. His hazy eyes snag on the knife lying on the carpet a few feet away and he forces his feet to carry him towards it.

The shape of the knife distorts and bends in his strained vision but he blinks and continues forward. It feels like he is walking through tar and the burning, dusty pressure builds in his torso once more in response to the sight of the weapon. He suddenly cries out and falls forward, the wave of soot in his body swelling up into every nerve and pitching him forwards. He barely catches himself on shaking arms.

Dean watches carefully as Bucky turns from him and stumbles towards the weapon halfway across the room. The man’s normally trained and poised frame is now sagging and swaying with fatigue and fear, his muscles barely holding him up and allowing him to function with each shaky step. When Bucky yells and collapses forward Dean feels his heart stop in fear.

“Bucky?” Dean asks seriously, his voice rising with worry.

Bucky’s shoulders shake with tension and suddenly he throws his head back in deep laughter. Dean’s blood turns cold as the chopped laughs bounce off of the walls of the room and thunder in his ears. The man sighs in contempt and easily shifts to stand tall, brushing the dirt off of his pants with arrogance.

“You know,” The demon says lightly and turns to face Dean with a smile that makes him sick to his stomach, “He sure is a fighter in here. I mean this bastard with _not_ give up. I guess that is what war will do to you. This guy’s head is _messed up_ though. I can’t even tell how old this son of a bitch is.”

The demon sighs again with contempt, looking down at the borrowed pair of skilled hands. His posture is too tall and proud to be Bucky’s and it makes his frame seem bigger than it really is. The demon shakes his head in slight wonder before rolling his eyes.

“No matter, he knows enough to kill a warehouse of men in an hour, and that’s all I care about. It’s so interesting how he is fighting me even though he has _no clue_ what I truly am. Sure, he knows my species, but he has no idea what the hell he is doing. Have you even told him about all this, Dean? About our lives, what I am, what you are?” The demon watches him with cynical black eyes, knowing his words paired with his face are getting under the hunter’s skin and loving every second of it.

Dean grits his teeth, his bruised cheek throbbing from the pressure, but he ignores it. The demon is playing with him, like they all do. He can see the familiar glint in the dead shark eyes. What makes him pause is the slight waver in the demon’s features. Bucky is still fighting. Dean can see the faint extra effort that the demon has to give into keeping the former soldier at bay.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Dean grits out with a twisted smirk of hatred.

The demon blinks and the grin falls from his face. A cold scowl replaces it and he takes a threatening step towards the bound hunter. Dean can see the hinted struggle deep within the demon’s posture and gaze and holds his mocking gaze.

“This hasn’t happened to you before,” Dean continues with a sly smile, “He is fighting you, throwing you out, and you are _scared.”_

The demon suddenly lunges forward and leans over him, hands gripping the back of the chair on either side of his head. His breath is hissing out between grit teeth and he shakes the chair once with his great strength. His black eyes narrow and he sneers down at the bound man.

“If you still think you can get through to him, you are sadly mistaken. I can feel him writhing around in here.” The demon pauses when he sees a new note of fear in the hunters eyes and smiles as he continues, “I can’t chase his memories like I can for others, but I know enough that this bastard is _scared to death_ because he does not have control over his own body again. I know it has happened before. Oh so many times, and he is _terrified._ And that delicious fear is all I need.”

Dean does not break eye contact with the demon as his heart flutters nervously in his chest and the demon steps back to look down at his host.

“I don’t give a damn where he served or when or what city he grew up in or any of those pathetic details. I just know that this man is a killer, and I like it. Especially this toy,” The demon sheds off the thick jacket to leave only a black tee shirt covering his upper body.

The demon holds out the shining metallic arm and stares at it in awe. He flexes the fingers and twists it in the light from the lamp, liking how it catches the beams.

“This is truly a thing of beauty. And I’m sure it is even better,” The demon leans over Dean, “When I get to use it.”

A hard impact to Dean’s jaw sends his head flying to the side. He grunts sharply in surprise and pain. The metal leaves an extra sting against his skin and he slowly works his jaw, gingerly making sure nothing is broken. He spits out the blood welling in his mouth and looks back at the demon in hatred. His stomach drops when he meets Bucky’s fluttering eyes that switch back to blue once more.

Bucky’s mouth opens and forms words his voice will not support. A new wave of tremors wracks his abused body. His gaze is locked on the deep bruise forming on the side of Dean’s face and the blood dripping over his bottom lip.

“Oh God…” Bucky’s voice is almost mute with fear and he practically throws himself backwards away from Dean.

He staggers back until he roughly hits the opposite wall, silently hoping the shock will knock some sense back into him after the impact is made. His body is still straining and not big enough for him to breathe in. Bucky stares at Dean with wide, fear-blown eyes. The fresh red mark on the man’s face glares back and taunts him.

Bucky is visibly shuddering now and Dean can see the complete horror in the man’s gaze.

“No, no, _no…_ not again, oh _God_ Dean…” Bucky shakes his head and looks down at his trembling hands in shock and repulsion.

Dean barely feels the sting in his cheek over the rush of relief that he is again talking to Bucky. He leans forward as much as the restraints allow him, searching intently to meet the man’s wild eyes.

“Bucky, listen to me man, you have to get me out of here while you are still in control. Whatever you are doing, don’t stop because it is working. Hey!” Dean barks roughly, desperate to see the former soldier and get through to him, and Bucky automatically looks up to meet his eyes.

“Knife, Bucky, _now,”_ Dean suddenly growls out the command.

He knows he is being harsh but he has to get out of here and help the traumatized man and find his brother. Dean searches Bucky’s horrified eyes with a strong air of authority and the former soldier finally blinks, seeing his friend clearly. Bucky nods frantically and staggers forward.

He almost stumbles over the knife and is about to lean down to retrieve it when another painful cry escapes his lips and he tenses. His muscles lock up and his face twists in pain.

“Bucky,” Dean calls out cautiously, practically shaking beneath the ropes tying him down.

Bucky immediately freezes in his half-leaning stance, lips parted from roughly panting and not breaking eye contact with Dean. His eyes are a clear blue and trembling slightly as he blinks quickly.

“He-He’s in me, Dean.” Bucky whispers in a broken, uneven voice and shakes his head. “I-I’m so sorry.”

Dean watches him with wide eyes, the absolute fear in the other man's normally quiet and intense gaze making his stomach twist. His wrists burn from the rope rubbing roughly against his skin, bleeding and coloring the sleeves of his jacket dark red, as he pulls at them roughly in hopes to help the other man.

“Bucky, listen to me, you have control over this bastard, alright? You are in control of your body.” Dean watches him seriously.

Bucky’s lips twitch and curl up slightly. His eyes are still dead and afraid but his mouth pulls into a small smirk. His face tics again and a rough laugh escapes his body. Bucky’s eyes a still afraid as they crinkle slightly and move around his wide smile.

“No,” His voice is ragged but smug and makes Dean tense automatically, “No he’s not.”

Bucky sways on his feet, still slightly hunched to the side, as he blinks rapidly. Dean tries to keep up with the flashing changes between black and blue. His face twists into a grimace of pain and frustration. Dead shark eyes finally settle on him and Dean swears at the demon. The demon tries to straighten up and pull the tired muscles back into the arrogant posture when his face suddenly loses the grin and looks puzzled before slowly dropping to a frown. The demon stumbles back and growls angrily before blinking a few times to reveal blue irises. Bucky lets out a jarring gasp and his shoulders deflate.

“Bucky, come back to me man,” Dean pleads as he watches the internal battle.

Bucky suddenly stops shaking, a new purpose in his crystal blue eyes, and looks down at the blade a few feet away to shakily reach for it once more. His arm jerks and withdraws quickly. The demon viciously whips his head back to Dean and snarls in anger.

“No, he is _my_ puppet and I-”

Bucky blinks quickly and suddenly lunges for the demon knife. He falls roughly to his knees and scrambles to grab the weapon. Once it is in his hand his fingers immediately flex and open, making him drop it. Dean watches is horror as Bucky shakes his head, teeth grit together and eyes narrowed in distress. The former soldier suddenly grunts loudly through his teeth and grabs the hilt of the blade strongly in both hands, plunging it into his side.

Bucky’s body instantly tenses and his back arcs painfully. His hands release the knife and lock up. His head gets thrown back and Dean can see the agony in his grit teeth and eyes squeezed shut in pain as a clipped groan escapes though his teeth. The red veins crawl up his skin and his mouth opens to release the familiar thick black smoke. Every muscle in his body is taut and shaking from tension as the smoke finally leaves his system.

Bucky immediately slumps back onto his knees, painfully catching himself limply on one arm as he falls onto his side. His eyes are glazed over and Dean can see the shock and fatigue there. His gaze is distant and he blinks sluggishly. Dean glances nervously at the blade embedded into the side of the man’s stomach, his heart still stopped in shock and disbelief.

“Buck?” Dean asks uncertainly, his voice wrecked and hoarse but he could care less.

Bucky blinks slowly, his chest rising in short pants of air. His eyes sluggishly move up to find Dean.

“Dean…” He mutters in a slurred voice, “…’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the feedback! I am having too much fun with messing in Bucky's brain. Let me know if you want more!


	4. Because I Asked Him To

Dean watches in utter shock as Bucky groans and shifts to get on his hands and knees. He grimaces but tries to hide it by clenching his teeth. He pushes himself to his feet and drags himself into a kneeling position to get level with Dean’s still bound wrists. He sees the red staining the hunter’s skin and winces.

“Bucky, _Jesus,_ how did you-?”

Dean is cut off by Bucky’s clipped cry of pain as he jerks the demon knife from his own abdomen to begin sawing at the ropes. He blinks a few times but refocuses. He has a mission again; get the Winchesters out of here.

He cuts through the ropes around both of Dean’s wrists and quickly moves to the man’s ankles. His breathing is ragged and loud and he forces himself to slow it down with controlled breaths.

“Here,” Bucky mumbles tiredly as he rips off strips of his black shirt not blood-stained from his wound and wraps them around Dean’s raw wrists.

He makes the mistake of glancing up and seeing the split and swollen mark on Dean’s cheek. He visibly cringes and stumbles up to his feet and backwards to get as far away as possible. Bucky hears Dean unwinding the remaining ropes still loosely holding him down. He turns and staggers over to the bathroom. He grabs the knob and twists, finding it destroyed by a knife.

His knife…

He pushes the memory away to think about later. Bucky shifts back to catch his breath slowly. His fingers twitch by his sides as he prepares himself. He suddenly sucks in air and rams his metal shoulder into the door, throwing his body behind the impact.

Dean’s head whips up from freeing his ankles at the sound of splintering wood. The blood drains from his face as he sees Bucky stumble forward before catching himself on the doorframe. The former soldier is panting roughly and takes a slow step into the restroom. Sam is collapsed onto the floor and the image sends Bucky to his knees.

He frantically reaches for Sam’s pulse with his right hand, breathing a strained sigh of relief when he feels a heartbeat. He shifts the youngest Winchester onto his back and lowers his ear to the large man’s chest. The hunter’s breathing is ragged and he probably has some fluid in his lungs, but he is alive. Both of the brothers are.

Hurt, but alive.

Bucky senses Dean behind him and automatically stiffens. Dean must be freed now. Bucky can hear his breathing and the slight whistle of air through a damaged nose. Hurt, because of him. Bucky swallows roughly and freezes when Dean leans down beside him, putting a hand on his brother’s forehead.

“H-He’s alive, there’s just-just fluid… in… in his lungs.” Bucky forces himself to relay the information.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, keeping a hand on his brother’s slowly rising chest.

“We should get him to the hospital. Cuts and bruises I can do, but all of that lung crap…” Dean trails off with a shake of his head.

He glances over to Bucky kneeling stiffly beside him and his eyes travel down to the stab wound thickly oozing blood from the side of his stomach.

“You too Buck, you’re on the doc’s list now.” Dean adds and grunts to haul his little brother into sitting position leaning against the wall.

Bucky numbs suddenly and he shakes his head. No, he needs to get out of here _now._ He let it happen again. He lost control and he hurt them and he needs to leave.

Dean situates Sam against the tub and feels his younger brother’s forehead and neck, satisfied to find no fever and a steady pulse. His fingers automatically begin combing through Sam’s shaggy hair still wet from the water draining slowly from the tub to check for bumps. Dean grimaces slightly when his index finger hits a new welt on the back of his brother’s skull and sighs deeply. He hits Sam’s cheek lightly, trying to get him conscious. Sam’s eyes slowly twitch and crack open, his lids heavy.

“Dean…?” His voice is thick and cracking.

Dean gives his brother a small smile and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Atta boy Sammy, let me see those eyes.”

Sam blinks a few times and winces at the new pain shooting through his head. He coughs once and suddenly his lungs are constricting. His body tenses and he feels liquid shooting up his throat. Dean gently helps maneuver his brother so the man is leaning over the nearby toilet so he can cough up water and other trapped fluid. He absentmindedly rubs his brother’s back, a gesture that he has never let go of in situations like this.

“We need to get you checked out, Sammy.” Dean mutters when his brother’s wheezing slows and he can breathe again.

Sam groans lightly and lets Dean shift him to lean against the wall once more. Dean puts his hand on the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder to support him, trying to soothe his brother with the warming touch. Sam’s eyelids flutter slightly as he fights to refocus. He blinks widely and coughs once more. He scans the small bathroom through fogged eyes and sees the destroyed door. His eyebrows furrow slightly and he shifts to look at his brother’s face a few feet from him. The angry red mark on Dean’s cheek and matching bloody nose and lip make his heart twist in anger.

“Damn, they did a number on you. How the hell did you gank all of them?” He mutters as his senses start to come back.

Dean’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion and then he becomes aware of the sting of his skin and coppery scent of blood. His head whips around to look at the doorway and he freezes when it is empty.

“Dean?” Sam asks lightly, fighting to stay conscious and alert from the change in Dean’s posture.

“Bucky, he…” Dean trails off in a low voice and he slowly gets to his feet, eyes tracing the room for signs of the other man.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. He grabs the sink to hoist himself to his feet. Sudden vertigo grips him for a moment and he has to take a second to force air through his lungs and remember which way is up. He slowly pokes out of the bathroom to see Dean quickly pacing the room littered with bodily hosts, a frantic edge to his brother’s face.

“Bucky was here? Why would he come here?” Sam continues trying to get all of the information he can.

Dean stops in the middle of the room, arms by his sides and shoulders slumped. The only orderly spot in the otherwise destroyed room makes his stomach drop. The folded blanket at the foot of the bed otherwise rumpled from various impacts and scrambling hands is pristine and set gently over the mattress. In the center is the demon knife, clean of blood, set perfectly against the fabric. The spotless shine of the metal mockingly contrasts the dark seeping into the room and Dean exhales like he took a hit to the stomach.

“He was here because I asked him to be,” Dean mutters numbly.

 

* * *

 

The ride in the impala back from the hospital is too quiet. Even with Dean’s music blasting, the air between the two brothers is thick and neither of them dare break it. Sam coughs under his breath, his chest still tight from almost drowning, making him wince slightly. Dean glances over at his brother automatically and quickly looks him up and down to make sure he is safe. The kid just needs rest now. There is nothing more doctors can do. There is nothing more Dean can do.

Sam had been assuring him the whole way to the hospital and during the checkup that he was fine and Dean was overreacting, but the older brother was still on edge from the evening. He searched that room and the rest of the hotel top to bottom before they left. Sam was a trooper; he kept his mouth shut and did his best to help without passing out.

There was no sign of Bucky. Dean double checked. He asked a few people in the lobby and a second, very confused, receptionist. No one had anything. He triple checked the area around the hotel and shops along the street.

Nothing.

Dean slows to a stop in front of their motel room, turning off his baby and pocketing the keys. He has been silent since the two of them started the drive, not having anything to say. Sam can see the frustration and guilt fuming inside his brother like fire in a furnace. The older Winchester’s jaw is clenched shut and his eyes are sharp as he grabs their weapons bag from the trunk and slams it closed a little harder than necessary.

Sam follows wordlessly into their rented room, feeling dead on his feet but awake with nervous energy. He closes the door behind them and sighs shallowly, feeling his still-sore chest resist the expansion.

“Look, Dean-”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Sam.” Dean immediately interrupts and drops the bag on the bed, beginning to methodically clean their weapons to keep himself busy.

Sam exhales in frustration and sits on the second bed to face his brother, feeling the waves of anxious tension rolling off of him from feet away.

“Bucky agreed to come along, right?” Sam asks pointedly.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, the bandage placed on the cut there making him twitch slightly. He swallows dryly and grabs one of the handguns to strip and clean. Sam’s lips tighten into a thin line and he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees.

“You didn’t force him into anything,” Sam watches Dean seriously, waiting for him to leave, or blow up, or just react in some way, “He knew what he was getting himself into, he didn’t have to go.”

Dean drops the dismantled gun and runs his hand across his mouth.

“See Sam, that’s where you’re wrong.” Dean snaps sharply and turns around to face his brother.

“He had _no_ idea what we were going up against. Sure, he knows there are demons in the world. He has gathered that much by now, but _dammit_ Sam he shouldn’t have had to go through that with all of the crap he is already dealing with.” Dean is fuming silently and paces to the other end of the room, tension vibrating off of his shoulders.

“Dean,” Sam says gently to get his brother’s attention, “What happened back there?”

Dean grits his teeth together and drops his eyes to the ground. His hands clench into fists by his sides and Sam knows he is barely controlling his urge to destroy something. It has always been Dean’s coping mechanism, destruction, whether it is a wall or his liver.

“Bucky got possessed.” Dean suddenly answers through a clenched jaw, meeting Sam’s eyes dead-on and shaking slightly, “He wasn’t warded, and a demon possessed him.”

Sam feels his heart skip a beat. He knew that Bucky had tagged along to help get him out, but he never knew the extent to which Bucky had been hurt. His breath feels short and he blinks a few times to focus and find his voice again.

“Is-Is he still…?” Sam asks nervously, watching Dean’s reaction closely.

Dean’s shoulders slump suddenly, the fight gone, and he shakes his head. His eyes are still bright and thinking though, which throws Sam off. The older hunter licks his lips, trying to describe what happened, and shakes his head again before going to sit on the bed facing his brother.

“No, he’s not possessed anymore. I can’t tell you how the hell he did it, Sam, but he fought it.” Dean stares at Sam with intensity, hoping somehow his brother had the answers he doesn’t.

Sam’s eyebrows furrow and he blinks in confusion.

“He fought _possession._ What, he just cast the demon out himself?” Sam asks skeptically.

Dean shakes his head and rubs his hands together absent-mindedly.

“No, he got control though, enough that he could get the demon knife and-” Dean swallows nervously and sighs tightly, “And he stabbed himself.”

Sam searches Dean’s open gaze in disbelief. He scoffs quietly and shakes his head in wonder.

“How the _hell-”_

“I don’t know man, I wish I did.” Dean interrupts with his hands raised in surrender.

The older brother’s face drops slowly and he clenches his jaw again, remembering the rest of the night.

“But then he was gone. When you were still out, and I was in the chair, the demon riding him he uh,” Dean trails off quietly and motions to the new stitches in his cheek, “He took a swing at me with the metal arm. I think was the straw that broke the camel’s back, you know?”

Sam nods numbly. Memories of all of the stories Steve shared with them about Bucky’s brainwashing and the former soldier’s own guarded comments whirl in his mind. He scoffs hollowly and swallows the lump in his throat.

“Where do you think he went?” Sam asks softly.

“I doubt to the doctor’s like I told him to.” Dean replies dryly.

“We can search for him when we head out tomorrow. He can’t get too far with a stab wound in him, right?” Sam’s voice is thinner now that he realizes the intensity of the situation, completely forgetting the dizziness from the mild concussion given to him earlier.

Dean runs his tongue over his lips and shakes his head in thought.

“I don’t know, Sammy. This is _Bucky_ we are talking about.” He says in a low voice.

Sam sighs and nods once, sitting back farther on the bed. His body is tired and sore from struggling and almost suffocating. He feels his eyelids threatening to fall and jerks slightly to try and wake himself up. Dean glances over at Sam’s weary form and gets to his feet with a tight smile.

“Come on Sammy,” He claps his brother on the knee before turning to get himself a beer from a fridge, “Get some rest.”

There is no way he is sleeping tonight.

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t realize he is asleep until a quick knock at the door makes him jump out of his doze. He blinks quickly and straightens up, wincing as his muscles lock and complain from holding him up in a chair all night. Dean squints at the sunlight coming through the blinds and shakes his head to try and clear it. The firm knocking sounds again and Dean’s eyebrows meet in confusion.

No monster ever knocks.

He glances over to Sam who is now turning over in groggy awareness from the sound. Dean almost laughs at Sam’s hair sticking every direction but a muffled sigh and anxious pacing from the other side of the door makes him pause. Dean cautiously gets to his feet, hearing Sam do the same behind him. Dean grabs one of his handguns from the table in his hand and the doorknob with the other. He silently turns the handle with a click and opens the door enough for him to see through. The older hunter’s eyebrows cinch together and he opens the door the rest of the way in confusion.

Steve Rogers stands nervously in front of the doorway, hands wringing one another in an anxious gesture. At the sight of Dean he lets his arms drop by his sides and faces the hunter seriously. Dean can see the fresh stitches along the man’s jaw and eyebrow, hinting that he was recently out on a mission and not laid back at his apartment giving Bucky the all-clear to leave. The man’s eyes sharpen slightly and he stiffens even more.

“He’s not here is he?” Steve asks levelly.

Dean’s mouth turns dry and he blinks a few times to break contact from the soldier’s capturing blue eyes. Steve reaches into the pocket of his surprisingly average leather jacket and withdraws a piece of yellow notepad paper folded in half. He sighs down at the note before handing it to Dean. The older brother takes the paper slowly and skims over the message.

_“Off on a “hunt”._

_Be back before you. But I know leaving notes make you feel better._

_Get more pretzels._

_–Bucky”_

Sam reads the note over Dean’s shoulder and feels his stomach drop. He glances up to see Steve’s worried but intense eyes. The man’s posture is rigid and fearful as he looks back over his shoulder and exhales nervously. Dean looks up to meet Steve’s gaze and the soldier stares at him carefully.

“Did he go under again?” Steve asks in a hushed voice.

Dean feels his throat tighten and he coughs slightly. He nods shallowly and takes a steadying breath.

“Yeah, something like that,” Dean mutters.

Steve exhales tiredly and his shoulders slump. He runs a hand over his eyes, wincing slightly at the new stitches holding a cut in his eyebrow shut, and blinks a few times to clear his head.

“Then he ran, like he always does.” Steve comments quietly and shakes his head.

The soldier looks down at the cracked concrete under his shoes and takes another breath to collect himself. He has lost his friend too many times. He knows that when Bucky disappears like this with no trace or hints at all, then the man is hurting. Normally, if Bucky falls prey to one of his episodes or nightmares, he will escape for a day or two but leave notes and hints that only close friends like Steve could interpret. Even though it kept Steve up at night, he would know that if something was really wrong, Bucky could find his way back. Or even more importantly, Steve could find him.

This is different.

This brings back memories of when he lost his friend for the first time after being saved from drowning. There were no clues then. His friend did not want to be found. And when Steve finally was able to get his friend back, the piles and piles of guilt and remorse the man was carrying were staggering and almost too heavy for the broken man to bear.

This is another one of those times.

Steve runs his hand over his face once more and sighs from deep within his chest. He needs to find Bucky again before the man hurts himself… again. He needs to find him quickly.

Steve glances up at the two brothers he has become allies with and slightly attached to. Steve respects the comradery between them, the devotion to each other, how willing they are to fight and die for one another. It is something he has always admired in a person, soldier or not.

“You two…” Steve loses his voice for a second and clears his throat nervously, “You are hunters, right?”

Dean glances back at Sam who meets his gaze for a moment before nodding strongly. The two brothers glance back to Steve who meets their eyes equally. The soldier sighs again softly before squaring his shoulders slightly.

“Will you help me track him down?” The brothers can see the underlying fear and desperation in Steve’s eyes and it pulls at their hearts.

Dean nods slowly and Sam replies, “Of course.”

Steve visibly relaxes a little and lets his eyes close for a second.

“Thank you,” He says softly.

“It’s the least we can do, Cap, come in and we’ll talk.” Dean steps back to let the man in and Sam automatically moves out of the way as well.


	5. A Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, I am so sorry this update took forever. I have not been well and was laid up in care outside of my house and away from my laptop. Thank you to all of those who have given feedback and motivation for this story! Next update will be MUCH sooner, I promise!

After retelling Steve about the events of the previous night, the soldier is silent, arms leaning forward on his bent knees, eyes unwavering from staring at the wall. His mind is stuck back in memories of their fight on the helicarrier, seeing how broken Bucky looked after finally recognizing who Steve.

“But he is himself again,” Steve comments blankly.

Dean nods slowly from his place on the opposite bed.

“Yeah, Cap, he is all Bucky. I can’t tell you how he was able to throw the demon off enough to regain control, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Dean shakes his head slightly.

Steve scoffs once, a hint of pride reaching the smirk on his lips. Sam’s eyes narrow in confusion at the sudden fond streak of emotion in the soldier. He is about to ask when Steve speaks up softly.

“He’s done it before. Broken out, I mean. Granted, they weren’t actually _demons_ controlling him, but still.”

Sam pauses in thought. He blinks out of his trance and laughs hollowly.

“He’s strong, Cap, damn strong.” Dean adds gently.

“Always has been,” Steve replies mutely.

“We _will_ find him, Steve.” Sam says seriously.

Steve glances up to meet the younger hunter’s clear and focused hazel eyes. The soldier can see the dedication and confidence there and finds himself sighing in slight relief. Steve runs a hand over his mouth and nods, sitting back further on the mattress.

“One of us should stay here and search the area, another head back to my apartment.” Steve speaks in a focused tone, glad to be planning something now.

“Sure, just…” Dean interrupts softly, “Just let me try something first.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow slightly and he looks to the older brother. The soldier sees the open and honest gaze in the other man and lets his tensing shoulders drop in defeat before nodding. Dean glances up at Sam who throws him a look in return. The older Winchester sighs and closes his eyes, bowing his head.

“Hey Cas,” Dean licks his lips nervously before speaking again, “I know you are busy with your… God search or whatever… but uh, we got Sam back but Bucky, he uh, he’s kind of gone AWOL-”

“James Barnes does not want to be found,” A familiar gravelly voice interrupts calmly.

Steve’s head shoots up towards the side of the room towards the sound, his posture instantly tensing and ready to fight. He relaxes slightly when he sees one of the Winchester’s friends whose name he cannot correctly pronounce for the life of him.

The angel stands silently, posture straight and eyes focused. His gaze shifts slightly to meet Steve’s eyes and the soldier almost squirms under the intense gaze. Time as a soldier ingrained it in him to respect authority, and something in the penetrating blue eyes of this man _–angel,_  he can never remember that- makes him automatically sit a little straighter and breathe a little tighter.

“Captain, nice to see you again,” The angel bows his head slightly.

Steve swallows and nods once in reciprocation. The fact that he can actually talk to an angel and receive a gesture of respect still throws him off every time the being is around.

“What-” Steve clears his throat to find his voice and the courage to question the angel further, “What do you mean?”

Castiel drops his eyes silently and takes a deep breath. A flash of what almost looks like compassion and worry crosses the angel’s eyes and makes Steve feel a little more eager to what the being has to say. The usual blank and focused gaze the angel wears reminds him more of a hand-for-hire more than a soldier.

A weapon, not a fighter.

A listener, not a commander.

But the random appearances of emotion in the angel’s features put Steve a little more at ease. The being is obviously not human, Steve can gather that much, but it is still reassuring to know that the angel can have opinions and emotions enough to back up his actions. The two brothers have often told Steve about the troubling situation in heaven. It still blows Steve’s mind that it can still be talked about as a tangible place, and one apparently _visited_ without residency if you are the Winchesters.

It still makes his head spin, but it is also comforting to know that there is such a place. Of course he has also learned a little about hell, especially from a tight-lipped Dean, but he tries not to think about that as much.

What Steve has gathered from the brothers’ retellings of heaven and hell and angels and demons is that they trust Castiel, if Steve can actually remember the name correctly. Or, he has gratefully learned, just Cas.

At least that is easier to pronounce.

He has been told about Castiel's rebellion from heaven. Which, normally, would bother him. The being was not following orders and Steve has found himself trapped in and relying on systems of trust and respect to try and function in this newer world he was thrown into. It made him wary of the angel at first.

This was a rebel angel, which to him felt like some twisted oxymoron. Angels were guardians, so they should be good, right?

Steve learned better from the Winchesters. And from the times he has been able to sit and simply speak a few words with the higher being, he has learned some about Cas’ emotions and reasoning.

The angel rebelled because he believed in God. He believed in what he understood to be his true cause. He believed in humanity. He literally went through hell to fight for something he believes in. He cared about his loyalties to doing the right thing over his own life, or _essence,_ or whatever else he has to lose.

That is something Steve can respect.

The angel standing motionlessly at the foot of the bed looks anything but a mighty being. Steve has learned that this is not truly what _Cas_ looks like, and this is rather some kind of host body, or… _vessel_ was the word commonly used he thinks. So someone, a _human,_ had to trust this being enough to lend their body and life. Someone trusted this angel and his mission more than their own wellbeing. And it was not forced either, like Steve originally feared, but the body hosting this presence gave full consent. The man housing the angel is under the being’s protection and at the time believed enough in this being to put his life on the line.

That is something Steve can trust.

“James has found…” Castiel narrows his eyes slightly with a shake of his head, speaking in a low but slightly worried voice that pulls Steve from his thoughts.

It almost rubs Steve the wrong way to hear Bucky referred to by his real name. It makes him uncomfortable deep down.

“Some kind of warding signs… against demons but also against angels, and he has marked himself with them. I only know of his last location before he made himself invisible to me. He…” Castiel pauses and looks up to see Steve’s fearful but focused gaze.

“…he does not wish to be found.”

Steve lets his eyes close with a soft sigh of defeat and worry. His chin drops to his chest and he feels his lungs constricting and denying him air as his heart skips a beat. He knew from the start that Bucky would be running, and doing it well, but he never expected _this._ This was way above the two soldiers’ pay grade.

But Bucky always was prepared and able to think on his feet. Steve does not know if he should feel terrified or proud.

“Your friend is a very intelligent man, Captain,” Castiel keeps his voice even and slightly kind, noticing Steve’s worried reaction, “He is keeping himself safe, but he is also keeping himself from me.”

Steve opens his eyes to stare at his hands in his lap and shake his head slightly in recognition and fear. _Of course_ Bucky would figure out another way to camouflage himself. The man probably does not even know friend from foe right now and decided to just shut everyone and everything away.

Dean sighs in frustration and leans back to set his elbows on his thighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He can see the trained collected look on Steve’s face to feign an air of control, but knows well enough with a simple looks at the man’s bright blue eyes that the soldier is worried and hurting. They need to find Bucky, fast.

“Where was the last place you were able to track him to, Cas?” Dean asks in a gruff voice.

Castiel blinks once and looks to the ground with a slightly far-off look in his eyes. Steve glances up at the angel to see the blankness of his features but concentration in his eyes. Castiel blinks once more and seems to mentally return to his body. He lifts his head to make eye contact with Dean.

“It was east of this place, heading back towards his residency in the same apartment complex as the Captain. I truly lost sight of him a few miles away from a library where I believe he was able to access the information to use these warding signs.” Castiel replies and lets his eyes flicker to Steve, his voice lower and more intense than normal.

Castiel can see the deeply rooted fear and compassion in the Captain’s gaze. It pulls at something deep within his chest and it makes him take a soft, steadying breath he does not need. It has been happening more lately, he feels, breathing when he experiences such human pulls of emotion and thought. This body has odd natural responses at times. It is almost like a warning sign that he is spiraling too deep into whatever emotional baggage these situations bring him.

It is exhausting.

But also interesting and exhilarating.

Castiel likes the comradery between Steve Rogers and James Barnes.

Castiel has seen James Buchanan Barnes before. He has come across the man many times in his wanderings. He enjoys watching certain amiable lives through time that he stumbles across during his travels progress and change as they grow. It has always been easy for him to see the souls of the humans he chooses to view. It is part of what makes him an angel. He often finds himself looking at the humans he has grown especially fond of for minutes on end, searching the various hues and concealed shines and shadows of their souls.

He has been chastised by Dean especially about his staring, but he does not want to stop.

Humans are limitlessly puzzling creatures that can change on a whim.

It is intriguing to him.

James Buchanan Barnes intrigues him.

When Castiel first discovered James, it was back during the time of World War II. That time to him does not register as being long ago but to others, like the Captain, feels like a lifetime away. Time is another puzzling concept to a practically immortal being like Castiel, but one he does not like to think on as much.

James Buchanan Barnes was a kind, pure soul when Castiel first saw him. He had a younger sister he cared for more than life itself as well as a brother not related by blood. The bond between James Barnes and Steve Rogers would always be one the angel could return to and observe when he needed a little bit more faith in humanity.

In history, this was a time of war, death, hatred, loss, sorrow, the list goes on…

Castiel did not have as tight a grip on human emotions at the time, but the large amounts of these heavy feelings radiating over the world was enough to make him feel worried. The battlefields were horrific, even to a being such as him, for it always tore at his metaphorical heart to see God’s creations fighting in this way.

So, he would find bonds of love and caring to focus on instead. And the comradery between James and Steve always made him feel that much more hopeful.

Castiel can remember clearly the devotion one man had to the other. James was the net that Steve fell back on to keep from falling as well as the rope to pull the smaller, sickly man back to his feet. James was a big brother by blood and by choice. He was a pure soul that wanted to fight, not because he wanted to hurt the enemy but because he did not want them harming his family.

James has always been an altruistic man in Castiel’s eyes. And then everything changed when the man died.

Castiel has no other way to truly explain what happened to James Buchanan Barnes after he fell from that train. The James that Castiel had silently looked upon for the smallest spark of reassurance died. It broke something inside the angel. It was a minor fracture to Castiel, seeing as his own emotions were still untrained and dull, but the loss of James’ pure caring and resulting devastation in Steve made him almost… worried.

It was an odd sensation and that is when Castiel noticed he took a breath. Maybe he had done it before, but this was really the first time he _noticed_. The second breath was after meeting the Winchesters and seeing the unbreakable relationship between the two brothers falter when actions were challenged and blame assigned.

Why must the bonds he enjoys always face heartbreak and pain? It drives the angel half crazy sometimes to see the two halves of these bonds ripped apart and then try to mend back together again. But it is also intriguing to see the changes.

With James Buchanan Barnes, the puzzle of his soul never seems to be complete. Since the man's fall and what Castiel again refuses to believe is anything but the former soldier’s death, James’ soul has changed so often that Castiel feels that he can never quite pinpoint all of the colors and shades radiating from deep within the man’s essence.

However, there are common pieces that never seem to fade or shatter.

Castiel can see the brokenness. He can see the anguish, the pain, the fear, the hatred. But he can also see the buried joy and longing for kinship still strong from the man’s former life. James’ soul changes enough that Castiel can never get a solid picture of what the man should be in his mind, and it is interesting.

James Buchanan Barnes is some type of puzzle that Castiel truly wants to finally figure out, because every time he thinks he has a final answer, he is again proven wrong.

Castiel knows the importance James holds to his friends currently in the room with him. The comradery between James and Steve, who is sitting a just few feet from him, is still strong and radiates from the nearby soldier. Castiel can visually see the various strong bonds between the two men that run so deep and resilient that nothing seems to be able to break them apart. No change to James’ soul could permanently reach them.

He sees the same connections between Sam and Dean and it still makes Castiel wonder and admire how two men who are not brothers can have the same unwavering connection as two men who are.

It intrigues him.

Now that James Buchanan Barnes has been taken off of his radar, he can sense the desperation and fear in the three other men of the room.

It makes him take a small breath to steady himself.

“I can take you to that location, the library, if you would like.” Castiel offers calmly.

Dean glances up at the angel and then over to Steve. The older hunter sees the suppressed desperation in the soldier’s eyes. Dean nods strongly once and then looks to Sam beside him who is looking slightly hopeful as well.

“I can stay and check around here again,” Dean states with determination.

The oldest Winchester glances up at Castiel once more and meets his gaze strongly.

“You should take Sam and Steve over there and then they can split the distance.”

“I should head back towards the apartment,” Steve interrupts evenly, glad to be getting a plan and progress laid out but still unsure of this library.

He knows it would be a long shot that Bucky would return home, but he has to just try and  _hope_. He glances over at Sam, quickly taking in the man’s slightly ragged and tired appearance and slightly purple collar of bruises around his neck. Steve winces a little in sympathy before looking up to see the younger Winchester’s intense hazel eyes trained on him.

“Sam, would you mind checking out this library…?”

Sam nods strongly with a new flash of determination in his eyes and cuts the Captain off, getting to his feet and scanning the room for his boots and handgun.

 

* * *

 

Sam feels the familiar dissonance in his body of being transported after Castiel’s fingers brush his forehead. The younger Winchester blinks a few times and takes a steadying step, gathering his surroundings. He cannot blame Steve for wanting to instead take his motorcycle, which Dean was slightly ogling over, to trace the roads he feel Bucky may know back to New York instead of this.

“Cas, where are we exactly?” Sam asks after finding his voice again.

“Just on the southern border of Michigan,” Castiel replies calmly and glances up with a muted fondness at the slightly cloudy sky and cool forest air against his skin.

He almost wants to breathe it in to smell, but does not _quite_ see the point.

“James was heading north through this state when I lost track of him. We are standing in the very last spot I sensed his presence.”

Sam nods absentmindedly, more focused on the old road they are standing in the middle of with thick trees surrounding them. He squints at the dense foliage around him and glances over the wide and visually worn-down dirt road stretching out to either side of him.

“When did you last sense him here?” Sam asks and squints slightly as some of the still moist dirt on the edge of the road from the water hanging in the winter air.

“He was here around 8 hours ago.” Castiel reports evenly.

Sam nods again and squats down onto his haunches, still narrowing his eyes at the side of the old road. He is no real hunter by the common dictionary definition, but he still knows how to track, especially in weird cases like this. His head tilts slightly and he lets his eyes travel across the uneven marks along the side of the road that suddenly seem to form a vague trail. Sam sets his palm down against the dirt, feeling it still wet enough that it must have rained recently, allowing the prints to stay slightly formed in the soil.

“He was on foot,” Sam mutters quietly.

“Yes,” Castiel nods and adds evenly, “James left his vehicle back at the opening to this forest and then proceeded to walk through. My best guess would be he is following this road. I know that where we currently are is on the far outskirts some kind of inhabited area, Sam, there are scattered cabins less than three miles along this trail surrounding a small lake. Would you like me to take you there?”

Sam bites the side of his lip in thought.

“We don’t know if he is at one of those cabins, but if he is hurt as badly as Dean hinted at, then he would need shelter. I know he would never go somewhere obvious, but he would have to go somewhere he _knew_ was empty and he could hide in. He would go somewhere that was familiar enough to him that he knows he would not be disturbed if he didn’t want to. I know whenever I…” Sam trails off softly.

 _Whenever I would run, I would go to libraries and diners I knew that Dean could recognize but would never search in._ Sam shakes the thought away and sighs softly before nodding.

“Yeah Cas, take me to the first cabin, please. I will start there.”


	6. Camouflage

Sam thought he was on a trail at first. But that was three cabins ago. Castiel had informed him that there was a scattered string of small vacation cabins across this forest area by a large lake. Many of the buildings were now abandoned. The paint is chipping away and boards creak under every step on all of them. The age of the small houses was not what originally triggered Sam’s interest.

That first cabin had him almost jumping for joy at the sight. There was salt lining the doorway and windows. He could see faint and discreet warding signs around the floors and walls. He thought it was the perfect place for someone on the run from the supernatural could hunker down in.

Sam scoured the place top to bottom.

He even asked Castiel to try and help, though the angel’s powers were limited by the various spray-painted and engraved symbols that prevented him from so much as stepping into some of the rooms. Furniture still had some of those protective sheets thrown over the various couches and chairs to protect from the age. Dust floated in the air and made Sam cough a few times. The place looked abandoned and roughly ransacked by someone passing through.

Sam searched the place from the bottom up.

Again.

No sign of Bucky.

He continued to find protective sigils and demon traps amongst the askew furniture and old pictures barely able to hang onto the wall anymore. But no signs of the former soldier. Castiel obviously could not sense the missing man’s presence if he tried, but even still the angel could feel no hint of live activity whatsoever around the cabin. The two of them went through each room at least three times and both came to the same result, nothing but symbols of prevention and protection.

It made Sam’s mind reel.

The cabin itself would have fit Bucky’s needed situation. It looked easily old enough to have been around during the former soldier’s lifetime, even if it had been touched up in places over the years. It was close enough to the man's home that Sam could easily imagine Bucky traveling and staying here with family for a getaway. The paint making the sigils was fresh and the salt was still virtually intact.

Bucky was not there.

Sam felt for sure he was missing something. He was pulling at his hair in a frustrated, nervous reaction and Castiel had to set a light hand on the larger man’s shoulder to keep him from imploding and wearing through the old wooden floorboards with his pacing. The angel suggested the next cabin and Sam agreed with an irritated nod and groan. This place was screaming with the signs of someone like Bucky living in it, and he was going crazy. He figured visiting another cabin would not hurt.

Castiel could sense it was abandoned, but they had to try. It is not like the angel would be able to sense Bucky regardless. But they just had to _try._

When Sam quickly scaled the few old porch steps and crossed the worn wooden floor his heart stopped and his stomach fell through his feet to meet the rotting lumber supporting him. The second cabin was similar in structure to the first one, but not identical. Sam could see how these cabins could be a part of a larger string like Castiel was telling him, but that is not what made ice rush though his veins.

There was a salt line at the door. And all the windows. The same painted and carved sigils were scattered across the small house. Old paintings were cracked and fading. Furniture was covered for protection. Dust made Sam sneeze. It was all the same.

As was the next cabin.

And the next one.

And the one after that.

Sam was ready to claim insanity and say he was here before or stuck in some repeating loop or that this was a hotspot for a hunter’s vacation or _any_ logical explanation really but he could not think of anything and he was going crazy and he could sense Castiel’s hesitation and faintly growing confusion matching his own and Sam has lost track of time now. Which cabin is this the fourth the fifth the tenth he doesn’t know but it is driving him nuts because all of the sigils are fresh but there is no one here and all the people in all of these goddamn paintings look the same with their smiling kids in the summer fading to brown because the colors and pigments are old and he can tell each of these cabins held a different family but all of these photos look the _same_ just cracked, tipped over, on the ground, sideways on an old side table, or perfectly upright.

Wait.

Stop.

Sam feels himself physically halt and narrows his eyes slightly. This photograph, _this one,_ it is different. It is clean. The sigils are the same. The salt is the same. The old sofa covers are the same. But this picture is clean. It has been freshly wiped off. The dust is freed from the protective glass and Sam stops himself from sneezing this time because dammit this is important.

This is different. This is a break in the pattern. This is what he needs.

He looks the picture over carefully. It looks ordinary enough. It is of a young man, probably a good few years younger than Sam himself, but he has a wise and mature face. He has a young girl with him, sister by the looks of the way the two of them are embraced. They are outside in what looks like some campground. The girl is in a dress and smiling wide to reveal what looks like a baby tooth missing towards the front but she is too young and happy to care. The young man has his arm over her shoulders and is leaned down slightly to hug her loosely, a lazy but bright smile on his face. They are sitting at a small picnic table.

Sam can tell by their clothes that this photo is probably fifty years old at least. The boy is too sharply dressed in his "casual attire" and the young girl has on shoes that make up Sam’s mind for him. There is a tent in the background and what looks like a lake peeking out from behind the trees. What makes Sam’s heart clench is the boy’s crinkled eyes that cause him to appear to be practically squinting to make room on his face to accommodate for his wide smile.

Sam has seen it before and it hits him like a punch to the gut. He has seen the smile maybe _once_ in his life, but now it is all he can recognize.

This is Bucky he is looking at.

No, this is James Barnes.

This is Bucky _before…_

Sam swallows down the lump in his throat and straightens up from leaning to squint at the photo. He glances back at Castiel who is waiting in the doorway of the house. His dress shoes are right in front of the entrance, practically touching the doorjamb but not allowed any further, and Sam glances down to the wooden floor of the entryway to see a painted symbol of something looking like Enochian. The angel is staring at Sam calmly but the man can see the intensity in the being’s eyes.

Sam nods slowly, his nerves on end and tingling, and Castiel’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch.

“Gimme a minute, Cas,” Sam says in a low voice.

The angel nods firmly. Sam turns back to the small cabin, senses newly heightened and refreshed. Now he can see the small differences. On the surface, this house is the same. The sigils are painted and the symbols are carved. Salt is lined across entrances. Same as the other dozen cabins Sam has scoured.

But now he sees the subtly straightened out sheets covering the furniture. There is less dust covering tables and photos compared to the other buildings. Not one of the photos is on the floor or tipped over. Even if the frames are old or cracked, they are hung or placed with gentle precision.

It is the same attention to small, seemingly meaningless, detail that makes Sam buzz with anxious energy. This is the exact same focus to facets and importance that he witnessed back at the hotel with the demon knife set on the bed. The comforter was smoothed out and the blade clean. It feels like months ago now but he can remember it clearly.

Small factors of order amongst the chaos.

Attention and importance of small details that would be meaningless to anyone besides who they were intended for.

This cabin was Bucky’s at one point, Sam can just _feel_ it. It is important to the former soldier. It is an escape. It is a home.

It is safe.

Sam walks carefully across the dimly lit family room. He has spent the majority of the day rummaging through now useless cabins and he is not sure what time it is but he knows the sun has been down and gone for a while. The moonlight makes Sam open his eyes wider to adjust and scan for clues. The subtlest changes of pristine order in the otherwise aged clutter of the cabin makes him hum with nerves.

He steps into the small kitchen area and squints through the darkness. Sam pauses, listening intently. He can hear his own slightly heightened breathing and forces himself to take a breath and relax. He swallows nervously and blinks a few more times. Nothing. Sam exhales softly and continues his slow and thorough walkthrough of the cabin.

He reaches what looks like the kids’ room and glances around. The beds are covered and the few possessions are tucked away in the closet and what looks like some kind of toy chest. All together the room looks rather bare, but Sam can see the subtle nuances that imply that there were kids here. There are dings in the wall and scuffs on the wooden floors. There are scrapes from what look like small toy car tires across the room. A part of the chipped white wall is dimly colored pink and green from crayons.

Sam knows that you do not need a ton of toys in a fully furbished room to be a kid and have an imagination. He has been there himself and now knows the signs too well. He sighs softly and glances around again. The room looks mostly undisturbed and it makes his eyebrows furrow slightly.

He leans over both beds to see a fine layer of dust on both. They haven’t been slept in. Sam frowns lightly and walks through the cabin again.

And again.

He ends up in the kitchen for the third time and sighs lightly. He swallows and that is when he pauses. He does not have to sneeze. Sure, maybe he has become used to the thick, musty air of these cabins and has become desensitized to the sensation. But it is a noticeable enough difference to make him hesitate. He squints into the darkened room from the doorway. The floor has a noticeable lack of dust.

Sam swallows down his heart that leapt into his throat and he takes a few steps into the room. He scans over the area in front of him that he can see. Sam looks at the old tile beneath him and cannot help but bring his eyebrows together in confusion at the seemingly freshly cleaned surface.

His muscles are tense and his brain is buzzing. Sam looks beside him to the section of counter lining the wall that must extend around the room. The surface is old but freshly wiped over. Sam’s eyes track the worn marble again and then he sucks in a gasp. A hand towel is thrown into the corner of the counter closest to him. He saw it before and thought nothing of the old cloth sporting a moth hole. Now he tentatively reaches for it, nerves thrumming in the silence and breaths coming in quick through his nose.

Sam holds the cloth in his fingers and watches it unfold to release a whiff of what smells like some kind of strong chemical cleaner. It is fresh and some kind of citrus and sends a sharp signal through Sam’s nose. This is what cleaned the counter. He is about to question what needed such strong disinfectant when he sees it.

The dark red staining half of the towel.

Sam slowly reaches for the darkened fabric with his free hand. He rubs the corner of the old cloth between his thumb and forefinger and feels his body tense and lock up. The blood is still wet between his fingers. He nods to himself and licks his lips nervously but he feels reassured. Sam’s head shoots up when he hears the faintest exhale. It is a tired and defeated sound. A bone-deep hushed sigh of fatigue and fear.

“Dammit Winchester,” A dry and vaguely cracking voice whispers, “You just had to come looking.”

Sam drops the towel and immediately steps forward in the darkness. He searches blindly for a second before brushing his hand on the wall and stopping. He can see the outline of the counter and old refrigerator in the blackness but a small shift makes him freeze. Sam slowly crouches down until he is eye-level with the counter drawers. He smiles softly in relief but it ends up a pinched grimace due to worry. The taller man sits back on his haunches and exhales gently.

Bucky blinks black at him in the darkness. The former soldier is crowded in the corner juncture of the two long counter sections, curled up below the sink. He has his knees pulled to his chest and arms hugging his torso tightly. Sam can now vaguely hear the faint hitch in the man’s breath that must be from the stab wound in the man’s side. Bucky’s face is tired and pale and Sam can see the man shaking slightly. Whether it is from blood-loss or fear of the hunter or both, Sam is not sure, but he is relieved enough to see the man alive and breathing.

“Yeah Bucky,” Sam mutters with a barely-there smile.

Bucky swallows dryly and grimaces. He hugs himself tighter and drops his gaze, not wanting to see the thick sympathy and caring in the Winchester’s large and expressive eyes. He hugs himself tighter on instinct and hisses slightly under his breath.

“Of _course_ I had to,” Sam says gently.

Bucky tries to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and forces himself to look away from the artificial collar around the hunter’s neck made up of deep purple bruises, still visible even in the darkness he wants to just fade away into.

He thought he had done so well this time.

But there is always something he misses. Always some clue or track or _what have_ you. There is always something he does that turns into his downfall. He can never get it right and just disappear for _good._ He wants to. Lord knows he wants to just _go away_  and stop hurting everyone. He thought the dark would help camouflage him. He thought the cabin in the middle of nowhere would throw them off. Hell, he thought the supposed _goddamn angel warding signs he carved into his skin_ would help.

Bucky takes another shaking, broken breath of air.

He thought he had done so well this time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay we found Bucky! Feedback is always appreciated ya'll. Thanks for reading!


	7. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all, college is crazy and busy. I wrote this up kind of fast, so I apologize for any errors. Thanks for helping me keep up with this!

“You should go, Sam,” Bucky’s voice is small, weak, _broken._

Sam has heard Bucky’s normally strong and gravelly voice waver before in times of the man’s emotional distress. When retelling stories, the former soldier will sometimes stutter over a syllable or lose his voice for a vowel.

It has never been this raspy and devastated.

Sam’s eyebrows knit together and he licks his lips nervously. Bucky does not meet his concerned gaze but keeps his glassy blue eyes focused on the old tile beneath him. Sam can now see more of Bucky’s face as his eyes adjust to the small amount of moonlight coming through the window on the far side of the room. The man’s face is sporting a deep bruise on his cheek and a gash has sluggishly clotted above his eyebrow. His hair is dark and unkempt as usual, and thrown hastily back into some kind of bun that is falling out and letting strands hang across his forehead. Sam cannot see much of Bucky’s body, as the man is shrunk back and curled into himself tightly, but knows there are more wounds there that are being hidden.

What scares Sam the most is Bucky’s eyes. They look almost completely white in the pale light. They are shining and perhaps looked scared at one point based off of the red lining them, but now they are broken and desolate with despair. There is no planning and cunning electric blue spark.

No, Bucky’s eyes are glass now. Stained glass that has cracked and shattered. Sam wonders if he and the others will be able to piece all of the shards back together.

 _“Please,”_ Bucky releases the word on an almost painful whisper.

That makes Sam’s mouth run dry. He almost falls back off of his haunches but recollects himself. Sam sets his face into an authoritative and caring mask, turning on what Dean always calls his “puppy-dog eyes.” The hunter clears his throat, trying to get his voice to work again, and shakes his head.

“Bucky, you have to come back, man, we are all-” Sam hesitantly reaches towards the man but automatically pauses as Bucky exhales sharply and tries to press himself tighter into the corner created by the cabinets.

Sam watches sadly as Bucky shakes his head rapidly back and forth. The man’s hands claw at the sleeves of his jacket, hugging himself tighter than Sam knows is comfortable with the man's wounds. Sam holds his hands up in a placating gesture, almost as if he was facing a scared animal rather than a man.

Sam knows he needs to be careful right now, this is a delicate situation.

He is personally familiar with how easy it is to drown in self-hatred and not want to claw back out. He can see the same bone-tired but still shaky look in Bucky’s eyes that he has seen in his brother. That he has seen in Cas.

That he has seen in the mirror.

Sam licks his lips again and shifts to sit down completely, trying to make himself appear even shorter. He knows that Bucky is no longer on the offense in this scenario. The man’s fight seems to be utterly drained and gone.

Sam has seen Bucky fight before, has seen him initiate combat, and _knows_ that Bucky’s presence is not always shown by his stature. Bucky is smaller than both of the brothers, but granted, most people are. But being beside Bucky, Sam never felt like the man was any lesser of a presence to be dealt with. It was all in the way the former soldier held himself.

Maybe it was residual from the demanding time he grew up in or maybe it was something he picked up along the way being an assassin, but Bucky has a certain air about him. It intimidates Sam sometimes, and he has to be internally grateful that this man fights beside him and not against him. Bucky has a sense of authority about him. He holds himself up and shows it. He does not flaunt himself, but he presents his abilities. He is taller without having to physically grow.

This man huddled in the corner avoiding Sam’s eyes is not that same man. This is a broken man. This is a scared man. This is a man who does not deem himself to be forgiven. Sam can tell. He knows he has to be careful right now.

“Bucky, you saved my life.” Sam says seriously.

He keeps his tone even and his eyes sharp and focused. Bucky’s gaze flickers to him for half of a second to see the clear emotion and trust in the Winchester’s eyes. The former soldier immediately winces, eyes falling down to the collar of bruises marking Sam’s neck, and he quickly looks away once more. He swallows convulsively, wishing the marks were tainting his own skin instead of Sam’s.

“You saved _Dean’s_ life. He told me. He was playing demon damsel-in-distress and you got him out.”

Bucky automatically flinches at the mention of Dean’s name. He squeezes his eyes shut and his hands go to his face. His fingers rake across his forehead upwards to tangle in his hair. Sam can now see the silver of his hand poking out of an oversized jacket and how Bucky grimaces further at the cold and painfully reminding touch against his skin. On his other hand, Sam catches a glimpse of thick dried blood and his heart drops.

Bucky grits his teeth and fists his hands into his hair. The memories won’t go away. They march in his head and paint the inside of his eyelids. He has been remembering more and more about the time when that… _thing_ was in him and in control. He hurt Dean. He could have killed him. He could have killed Sam too. The younger brother was unconscious and only separated from him by a wall. It is all so familiar and it _hurts._ It hurts so damn bad.

Bucky is sick of trying to be in control. He is so tired.

So tired.

But the thoughts don’t let him sleep. His brain doesn’t let him stop moving. He tried to hide. He tried _so hard._ But he messed that up too. It was only a matter of time, he supposes now in retrospect, until they finally caught on. Last time, Steve was all-in during the search and it again ended in his retrieval.

Steve…

Shit.

Bucky grits his teeth tighter and squeezes his eyes shut until he sees pinpoints of stars in the darkness. He tugs at his hair and the slight sting grounds him a little. He can’t breathe right. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

“Go _away,”_ Bucky hisses out pitifully.

He himself is not sure anymore if he is talking to Sam or his own twisted mind.

Sam’s eyes grow sad and he exhales deeply. He wants to reach out and try to help comfort the man, but he sees how Bucky recoils at every move he makes. Maybe he should try another angle for this, because so far he is getting nowhere.

“Where are you hurt, Buck? I can help patch you up.” Sam offers calmly.

Bucky shakes his head violently again and shifts his hands to clamp them over his ears. He keens slightly under his breath and swallows thickly. Sam watches as the loose fabric of the large cotton jacket the man must have picked up from somewhere- perhaps even _here-_ slides down his forearms. He has to control himself from audibly gasping.

Sam sees the blood on Bucky's right arm. It is dried and smeared from being covered, but Sam can make out some of the sigils etched into his skin. Sam wishes that is what made his gut clench in fear, but when his eyes flicker to the man’s left arm he feels his stomach drop again.

The plates. The silver plates of Bucky’s metal arm…

Some of the thin, intricate bands are chipped and almost missing small chunks. Black wires show from underneath, light sometimes sparking or flashing with the man’s movements. The silver looks dull. Sam knows that the metal the arm is made up of is such a material that it keeps that faint shine and shimmer automatically. The scratches and scuffs must have been made recently and intentionally.

Sam feels his shoulders drop in sympathy. His head shakes slightly and his eyes trace the scratches that must be from some kind of knife crisscross over the metal. Some of the marks are focused around the edges between plates, as if the man tried to stick the blade between them and pry one away.

Other marks are more intent and tracing complex warding signs.

Then there are marks that look like they came from a sander and moments of pure desperation.

“Bucky…” Sam trails off sadly, releasing the small remark of sympathy before he can stop himself.

Bucky shrinks into himself again, digging his elbows into his ribs and releasing a clipped groan at the contact to his wound.

“Bucky, what can I do?” Sam asks, voice more firm than before.

“Go, _please,”_ Bucky mumbles faintly.

Sam shakes his head strongly, keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face even though the man will not return the look.

“I can’t do that, Buck.” Sam says evenly, “I made a promise.”

Bucky shakes his head again, dropping his hands to clench his knees tightly. The blood staining his hands makes Sam eye them nervously. He can now pick out the chipping of the man’s fingernails and silver specks littering the dried red blood.

“Steve knows?” Bucky asks, his voice not surprised but afraid.

Sam sighs softly through his nose before nodding. Bucky’s eyes flicker to the hunter and at his response close. The last breath of fight the man had seems to leave his rattling lungs and Bucky drops his eyes. His chin rests down against his chest in defeat.

“Does he… does he know what…” Bucky swallows dryly, his throat protesting from dehydration and lack of use, “…what I did to Dean?”

Sam’s chest tightens and he tries to shift slightly more towards Bucky. The former soldier seems to completely ignore the movement, instead focusing his now lifeless eyes on his hands clutching at his knees.

“Yes, but he needs you, Bucky. He’s not angry, god knows he could never be mad at you. We told him what happened. We told him how you weren’t _you-”_

“I never am anymore, am I? Not when it’s important.” Bucky’s voice is dry, small, and bitter, speaking as if the words are foul in his mouth.

Sam snaps his lips shut in surprise. He blinks a few times to recollect himself and releases a deep sigh with the shake of his head.

 _“Bucky,_ come on man, you can’t say that.”

“Why not?” Bucky finally looks up at Sam.

His voice drops out on the last word, but Sam catches it nonetheless. The utter brokenness and defeat in the man’s eyes makes Sam almost wither in sympathy. Sam opens his mouth to try and respond but Bucky beats him to it.

“It’s true. It’s _all_ true, Sam.” Bucky’s voice is cracking on every other word and hushed from pain and fatigue but he doesn’t care.

Someone has to know. Bucky figures Sam of all people could respect his wishes.

“It is all me. I’m a weapon, Sam, and I hurt people. And I’m so tired.” Bucky shakes his head and coughs under his breath, involuntarily wincing as a result.

He feels his ribs jostling at the motion and a new sluggish stream of blood starts to flow and soak through the jacket pressed to his bleeding side. He clears his throat and shakes his head again.

“It’s all happened too many times, Sam. How much more can I be forgiven for?” Bucky sees Sam’s eyes starting to glisten slightly and he grits his teeth to will himself to finish, “I don’t deserve it. I’m too damn tired. I need you to leave... I _do_ deserve that.”

“Hell no,” Sam automatically grits out.

Bucky blinks at the sudden bite in Sam’s tone and his bristling stature. The hunter sits up taller now, his eyes sharp and unrelenting.

“Hell. No.” Sam repeats sharply, his voice low and serious.

“Sam-” Bucky rasps out weakly, turning his eyes away again.

 _“No._ Bucky, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to _think_ that.” Sam seems to be getting almost angry now.

Bucky swallows, slightly nervous, and shrinks further into himself. He should not be surprised at this rage the hunter is showing. He expected it, actually, if _any_ of them had ever found him, but never for this reason. He could see Sam being outraged at what he did to Dean. He could see the hunter seething over what he almost let happen to the young man’s own life. But not this. Not this pitying- no, pitying is the wrong word, that sounds too negative for the intense emotion the Winchester is displaying- this _compassion_ makes Bucky’s head spin.

Bucky... he failed. Actually he did more than that, he hurt his ally. That is one of the events that you never live down. Ask any solider. An ally is an ally and they are supposed to be safe. Bucky can remember the punch he threw at Dean, can faintly feel the impact ringing in his knuckles. He tries to sand the phantom feeling away, but nothing helped. It is always there now, stinging the dull silver of his left hand.

The same fingers that almost killed Steve. That almost killed Sam. And now he can be forgiven?

“I don’t-”

“Bucky so help me god if you say you don’t deserve this. You saved my life, and Dean’s, and Steve’s for that matter. You’ve been dealt a bad hand too many times, Bucky, that is not your fault.” Sam stares at the man pointedly for emphasis.

“You need help, Bucky. I can see that you’re bleeding out. You’re going to die if you don’t-”

“I know.”

The two words settle coldly in Sam’s chest. The hunter grits his teeth and stares wide-eyed at the other man. Bucky meets his gaze, eyes broken and tired. Bucky does not look remorseful about his statement. He does not even look afraid.

It scares Sam to his core.

He opens his mouth, trying to think of the right words to say, for another angle to go from. He can think of one. Actually, he can think of two, but Sam figures bringing up Steve in this situation would not help. Mentioning the captain’s devotion to Bucky could only make the man more convinced that this is the correct way to go and save the super-soldier further trouble. So Sam picks the other option and goes for it.

“You don’t get to die, Bucky.” Sam says in as even a voice he can.

Bucky looks at the hunter silently. A flash of what looks to be almost frustration flashes across his eyes before he sighs and the fight leaves him once more. Sam can see the silent question of _why_ growing in the former soldier’s face. Sam takes another breath and shifts to sit closer to Bucky. The man stiffens slightly and hugs his chest tightly, but otherwise seems to allow the movement.

“You don’t get to die, because one, I made a promise, but more importantly two, I didn’t get to.”

Pure confusion pulls at Bucky’s features and the cracking crystal blue eyes narrow. Sam almost stops to revel in the small victory of an emotional response from the man but he licks his lips and continues.

“I don’t know how much more you know about what I've done in my life besides what I’ve told you, Bucky, but I didn’t get to just hop off the bus because I hurt people. I’ve hurt Dean before. Badly. Inside and out. I’ve been out of control of my body and said and done crap I would never do in a million years. But it happened. And you know what, I actually _have_ died, but here I am. Why? Because Dean wanted me to be. Because Cas wanted me to be. They didn’t let me give up, and I’m not letting you.”

Bucky stares at Sam, eyes wide and disbelieving. The weight of the world seems to suddenly rest on his shoulders and Bucky sighs deeply, letting his gaze drop to the floor once more.

“It’s not the same, Sam. You had no choice-”

“What, and you did?” Sam’s voice is no longer angry, but is still firm and focused.

Bucky’s face twists into a grimace and he runs his hands over his face again. He exhales shakily and drops them to let his fingers claw into the fabric of his pants covering his knees.

“I can’t hurt anyone anymore, Sam.” Bucky’s voice is again small and dead, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to apologize.” Sam retorts quickly.

Bucky blinks slowly and exhales deeply. The side of his face tics in discomfort but he ignores it. He shakes his head weakly and lets his head lean back against the wooden cabinet. Bucky looks up at the ceiling, tracing the lines of the old wood with his eyes.

“I’m sorry about what I did to Dean, and what I could have done to you. But you have to understand, Sam…” Bucky trails off weakly and swallows shakily.

Sam sits and waits, his nerves buzzing but he forces himself to be patient.

“You don’t... you don't hurt your family, Sam. Steve is my family, and I almost killed him. You and Dean… I see how much you mean to Steve. And I care about you two as well. And I almost _killed_ Dean, Sam, I could have easily _killed your brother_ and then finished you off without another thought.” Bucky glances at him pointedly before shaking his head and returning his gaze to the ceiling.

“I can’t hurt my family anymore.”

Sam shifts to close the rest of the distance between them and gently reaches over to set his hand on Bucky’s knee. He feels the man jolt automatically under his touch.

“You will if you don’t come back.” Sam offers gently.

Bucky lifts his head to look at Sam directly. He searches for the lie in the hunter’s eyes, for the catch, for the hidden motivation, for _something_ to show Sam is just using this as another excuse. Bucky finds nothing.

He shakes his head slightly, feeling his throat starting to tighten and close and making his head spin as a result.

“How…” Bucky rasps out and takes another shaky breath, “How do you not hate me?”

Sam gives a somber, lopsided grin and squeezes Bucky’s knee once in a caring gesture. The hunter watches Bucky with honest eyes, seeing the bare hurt in the other man’s broken gaze.

“Because I see how much you already hate yourself.” Sam replies softly.

“And no one could feel like that without feeling regret. I’ve seen it too many times, Buck, I’ve _felt_ it too many times,” Sam shakes his head slightly and offers a small, supportive smile, “And I know that you would never do anything to hurt your family on purpose. Trust me, I know.”

Bucky blinks a few times, letting his eyes fall from Sam’s intent gaze. He looks at the Winchester’s hand resting on his knee and stares at it for a few moments. Bucky swallows roughly and hugs himself tighter to put pressure on his wound. He shudders out a breath. Bucky looks back up to see Sam’s truthful gaze. He sighs raggedly, feeling more blood leave his knife wound and stain his borrowed jacket.

Bucky suddenly looks down at his knees once more, but Sam can see the new flash of clarity in the man’s eyes. Bucky offers a curt nod and Sam feels himself sink back into his seated position with relief. Bucky unwraps his arms from pressing against his torso and crosses his legs to set his hands in his lap. The former soldier looks down at the blood covering his hands and knows about the mess he has made of his forearms as well as everywhere else.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky offers again in a small voice.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Bucky,” Sam replies gently.

His face is more serious now, but Bucky can hear the small smile of relief in his tone. Bucky reaches for the cuffs of the large cotton jacket sleeves and almost hesitates. He takes another steadying breath and slides the fabric up both arms. Bucky can feel himself trembling slightly and grits his teeth in response. He steals a fearful glance at Sam’s attentive and worried eyes and finds a new shred of determination refusing to die out in his chest.

Bucky exhales shakily and turns his forearms up and out towards the hunter, bearing his sins and simultaneously offering his life up yet again to another person. But, this time is different.

This time, Bucky is willing.

This time he knows, deep down, that this is alright.


	8. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday weekend means a HW break and more time to write, yay! Thank you everyone for being patient and for the feedback, ya'll are awesome <3

Sam is not a queasy man.

He has seen his fair share and more of bloodshed and injury. It comes with his job. He is used to wounds. _Battle_ wounds.

This is a whole other arena. This makes Sam’s stomach lurch. But it is not the deep cuts in Bucky’s skin and bleeding sigils mirrored and engraved on his metal arm, no, it is the evident frustration and desperation held in the rough patterns. All of the marks in his flesh are completed with an almost scarily precise and surgical accuracy. No, it is not that the wounds themselves are somehow more grotesque or horrific than the hunter is accustomed to, it is the blatant fear and extreme anxiety in the rushed and scratched etchings on the man’s metal arm that make Sam shudder. It all makes his mouth dry and heart thud loudly in his ears. He knows he should say something, _do_ something besides look down at Bucky’s presented forearms and stare, but he can’t.

It is when Bucky makes a hushed weakened noise of guilt and begins to recoil that Sam snaps out of his daze. The hunter automatically reaches for Bucky’s wrists, grabbing the outsides and backs of his forearms in attempts to touch the rougher skin and keep the delicate, torn flesh from being further irritated. Sam automatically finds himself making a low, shushing, _soothing_ noise under his breath as he squints to assess the damage further.

He can freak out and mentally dissect the storm of painful emotions in Bucky’s head later, right now he needs to focus. His brain is retreating to protocol. Assess the damage, stop the bleeding, stabilize as much as possible, get him to a safe location, _then_ run a full 'checkup.'

Sam can hear Bucky’s wheezing breaths and know it is likely the man punctured something in his torso with the deep stab wound. He still has to look that over, but does not have the time now, considering it already took a fair amount of convincing just to get Bucky to comply with this much.

And Sam does _not_ want to _force_ Bucky to do anything right now. He knows that will just make this worse. He has to make Bucky want help. Or… at least accept it.

But Sam also knows that Bucky’s emotional state can only improve so much if his physical state is degrading and failing on him. The former soldier’s skin is pale and his eyes are glassy. With each brief glance up at the man’s foggy gaze, Sam can see the man’s eyelids pulsing closed randomly as he stubbornly fights off unconsciousness and probably an extreme level of blood-loss.

Sam can question, worry, and scorn the man later on his self-mutilation. Right now he needs to keep him awake. Right now he needs to keep him alive. Right now he needs Cas.

“Bucky,” Sam says the man’s name clearly, keeping his gaze focused but gentle.

Sam can feel Bucky trembling lightly as the shudders travel down his marred arms still resting on the hunter’s outstretched hands. The former soldier blinks sluggishly, obviously trying hard to focus, but failing. Sam can read the new but faint shred of determination in the man’s slumped posture and pasty pained face, but it is flickering with his struggle for consciousness. Bucky blinks for a slow second, keeping his eyes closed a little longer than necessary.

Sam swallows through a tight throat, waiting nervously for the man to respond. Bucky’s closed eyelids twitch and his head drops an inch towards his chest as Sam feels the limbs in his hands become a little bit heavier and boneless.

“Hey, _hey,_ Bucky, stay with me man,” Sam urges in a low but intense voice and gives the man a few firm shakes.

Bucky suddenly jerks into a perfectly straight seated position and forces his eyes open as his head flies up. As soon as he bolts upright his eyelids flutter and he grimaces, shrinking back further into the corner created by the juncture of the cupboards.

“Easy, easy, Bucky look at me, I need you with me, just a few more minutes,” Sam feels himself rambling slightly and grabs the man’s forearms tighter, searching to meet his unfocused eyes.

Bucky swallows with a wince and blinks as he feels the cut above his eyebrow beginning to bleed again around the clot that became disrupted from the sudden pressure in his brow. His breathing is fast and his torso feels like it is being squeezed in on every side. Bucky tries to clear his throat and coughs under his breath, slowly forcing his eyes up to meet Sam’s.

“Bucky, listen to me, I need to get Cas in here, alright? It is our only shot right now. I promise, I am _not leaving._ It will take us a minute to work through all the sigils you painted. Alright?” Sam talks in a rushed flurry of words, searching the man’s fading gaze.

Bucky swallows thickly and makes a pained face. He clenches his fists and Sam almost recoils at the sudden tension in the muscles pressed against his hands. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, panting and trying to clear this thick _whatever_ from his throat so he can breathe.

“Bucky, _hey,”_ Sam lets his gruff authoritative tone come through as he tries to meet Bucky’s eyes again.

Sam finally found the man and convinced him to go back, he is _not_ jeopardizing that now.

Bucky’s fists shake in Sam’s grip and he digs his heels into the old tile to press himself further back into the cabinet corner. His chest is too tight and he can’t breathe. He automatically coughs under his breath and feels more _stuff_ shooting up his throat and out through his grit teeth.

“Bucky, come on man, you don’t get to quit. Not now, not ever,” Sam mutters intently and grabs him tighter once more.

Sam’s heart stops when he sees the man’s torso convulse and blood start to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Bucky coughs loudly this time and more blood spatters out over the side of his chin. He blinks sluggishly and Sam can see his eyes rolling around to try and focus. Sam knows his heart couldn’t be working now as Bucky’s pained gaze meets his and he does something Sam would never have bet on in his life.

The man _smiles._

It is weak, bloody, beaten, cracked, pained, _tired,_ barely more than a twitch of his lips and a flash of white teeth stained scarlet.

But it is there.

“…K” Bucky rasps out and immediately struggles for another breath.

Sam cannot stop himself from smiling and laughing once in disbelief. He is up and crouched on his feet in a second, gripping Bucky’s wrists with strength no longer of desperation but of security, giving one final squeeze, then up out of the room the next.

Sam almost skids to a stop in front of the entrance door, coming practically face-to-face with Castiel. The angel’s deep blue eyes are focused and his face is pinched into his typical look of concentration.

“Cas, we have to get you in there, _now,_ Bucky’s not doin' well. Which sigils are blocking you?” Sam’s mouth is running a million miles a minute and he has already broken away from the angel’s intense stare to search frantically around the room for something to disrupt the marks with.

Castiel can sense the vibrant anxious energy radiating from Sam in waves almost tangibly. His eyes are calculating as he looks over the old wooden floor in front of him.

“Can we not relocate James Barnes outside so we may then travel back?” Castiel asks calmly.

Sam shakes his head quickly and runs over to what looks like an old fireplace in the living room of the cabin. The stones are old and dusty, but Sam can make out the coal poker hanging to the side and grabs it. Dust and rust coat his palm, but he could care less as he runs over and starts scratching at a line of the painted sigil keeping Castiel outside.

“He can barely breathe, I can’t move him right now, it would just make it worse. I need you to get to him and help him, Cas, please,” Sam rambles as he and Castiel play what he cannot label better than some kind of guessing game as the angel takes controlled steps until he can no further and Sam scratches off more paint.

“I talked to him and he _will_ go back with us, Cas,” Another pause and more scraping, “He wasn't happy, but now he will. He is fading though, please you’ve got to help him-”

“Sam, I am not sure how much help I will be to James in his current warded state,” Castiel interrupts in a calm voice as he stops once more.

It feels almost like his feet become nailed to the floor and an invisible hand grabs the back of his coat. It is discomforting and makes Castiel frown even further. But he will continue to do this. He will do all he can.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam mutters and scratches at the floor hurriedly, “You can transport him, right? Just get him back to the motel. Dean should be around still, and then together we can patch him up. It-It’s bad but we could-”

“Sam, based on your descriptions and our experience thus far, it seems that our help would not make much of a-”

“-do something, we have to. A-And they are just sigils, right? Nothing bone deep like Dean and I… right?”

“Sam,” Castiel interrupts and places a hand on the taller man’s shoulder.

Castiel can feel the Winchester’s muscles twitching and his pulse thrumming with fearful energy. Sam finally meets his eyes and Castiel can see the burning worry and dedication there. The angel feels this odd tug of matching sympathy for both the hunter in front of him as well as the man they are retrieving burn deep in his gut. He used to find it uncomfortable, now it is more… of a warning. It is like some type of honing device to let Castiel know that not only must he be focused and help to solve this problem, but he must do so in a way that is also emotionally comforting to those involved. He must prevent further damage. He must… be more _human_ about it.

Castiel takes a calming breath before he even realizes he is doing so.

“I will do all I can in my power to help James, but I am afraid I can make you no promises.”

Sam relaxes slightly and nods quickly, shutting his eyes for a second and seeming to recollect himself a little more.

“Thanks, Cas,” He mutters and swallows nervously, smiling slightly even though his lips are still tight with worry.

Castiel offers a small grin in response and lets his hand drop from the man’s shoulder. Sam feels a small wave of calm seep through his veins and he lets it spread and help clear his head. He needs to stay focused. He can deal with the emotional fallout later. He can deal with _Bucky_ later, now he needs to deal with an _injured soldier._

A clipped cry and resulting groan makes Sam jolt up, eyes wide. He spins on his heel and is about to run back into the kitchen when he hears a low grunt of frustration. Sam glances back to see Castiel physically restrained from crossing a line of black paint with a pure, angered look in his eyes. The angel looks up to meet Sam’s gaze and is about to speak when a thud from the kitchen makes the hunter jump once more. He looks back to Castiel, stuttering out something rushed along the lines of “o-one second,” holding up a hand and acknowledging the angel’s intense gaze and nod, before sprinting into the other room, squinting in the darkness and mentally cursing at the old and broken lights in the house.

Sam does not need to see much in order to figure out what is going on. Bucky is sprawled across the tile on his side, sagging down in a boneless heap until he is almost on his back. The blood trickling down his chin and eyebrow are shining in the moonlight and Sam is kneeling down next to the man quickly. The man’s eyes are closed and his hands are barely twitching now.

Sam holds his palm over Bucky’s slightly parted lips, feeling no exhaled air against his skin. He quickly looks over the man’s body, seeing the growing glistening stain in the jacket covering the man’s torso. Sam checks for a pulse and forces his shaking fingers to calm so he can complete this task. Sam holds his breath and watches Bucky’s slack face worriedly.

There.

A flutter under his fingertips.

Sam is too worried to try anything else risky and reaches under Bucky’s knees and shoulders. The hunter clenches his teeth and lifts, taking the smaller man with him. It worries him how _light_ Bucky is. The man probably hasn’t gotten to even _eat_ in the past few days.

Sam sticks to that reasoning, not wanting to consider the weight decrease could be due to drastically lowered blood volume.

As soon as Sam is standing upright, Bucky’s eyes flash open with a gasp. The man pants and struggles for air, his muscles automatically coiling and preparing him to fight. Bucky hisses out air between his teeth and pushes his forearm closest to Sam’s chest, his metal one, into the hunter’s torso while simultaneously rolling out of the Winchester’s arms.

Sam exhales roughly in surprise at the sudden contact, the spontaneity of it all affecting him more rather than any actual pain. He watches with wide eyes as Bucky twists and lands on the floor in a fashion that suggests would have left him kneeling and balanced had he not been currently on the verge of bleeding to death. Instead the man lands on his shoulder and hip with a choked back cry and tries to roll himself up onto his hands and knees while also facing Sam.

Bucky’s face is twisted with pain and his eyes are narrowed in concentration as he grabs for the counter and hoists himself into standing position, reaching blindly forward with one hand and keeping himself upright with the other. His free fingers curl around one of the blades in the butcher’s block he remembers is somewhere close and he quickly unsheathes it while turning to put his hip against the counter and face his opponent with all the strength he can muster.

The sight of large concerned hazel eyes and broad hands raised in a placating gesture make Bucky deflate back against the counter. The blade drops from his shaky, cold fingers and clatters to the tile floor. Bucky’s legs start to give out and he weakly reaches back to grab the edge of the counter.

“S-S… Sorry,” Bucky manages to whisper hoarsely around the blood pooling in his mouth.

He glances up again and Sam is gone. Bucky’s heart stops and he feels his body beginning to finally shut down. The counter under his numb fingers digs into his palm. His eyes are narrowed in pain and he tries to blink away the gray static creeping into his vision. The taste on his tongue is bitter and he tiredly leans his head to the side to try and spit out whatever is blocking his airway.

He coughs and feels the blood against his skin. He blinks and feels it there, too, dripping into his eye. He breathes and feels it again, coating the skin stretched across his ribcage. A lung then, maybe, punctured? He can’t tell. He never was the nurse type.

Bucky gives a weak smile at that. Lord, if the boys in blue could see him now. He knows they would run. Hell, if he saw someone the likes of himself strolling up, he would run too. No question.

A wet laugh, some pitiful cross between a cough and a chuckle, claws its way out of his throat. His eyes hurt too much to keep open and the shadows make him dizzy regardless.

So, is this what it felt like?

It is a hell of a lot more peaceful than last time, that’s for sure.

It’s not as cold, for one. He had all of his body parts then, but hey, a guy can dream. He likes the looseness of this blood-loss-dying-thing. It’s all so… relaxed. He hasn’t laughed this much in a _long_ time. It feels good.

Well, actually, it hurts like hell. But it feels good deep down, he supposes.

No, last time he went out as a soldier. He went out besides Captain America. Putting his life on the line for the red, white, and blue and that kid from Brooklyn who was basically the brother he never had. Another wheezing chuckle escapes him and he realizes that if he had not been changed or put through any of… _that,_ then he might actually sound like this every day with old age and failing lungs.

Well, one of his lungs _is_ failing now.

Man, he hasn’t been able to laugh like this in a long time.

He can’t see much either, but that doesn’t matter right now, this time is way better than last time. He doesn’t feel as bad this time. This time he is not leaving a mission incomplete and letting down a team, but he is finally fulfilling a task. He is putting an enemy down. Just like the good old days.

Being karma’s messenger.

Putting a rabid dog to sleep.

It’s good. This is good. Or it _will_ be, he supposes.

He fell last time, too. That was not pleasant. This time he can still feel gravity keeping his feet on the ground. There is still that stomach-lurching feeling of nausea, but it is definitely not as bad as free-falling. That was not a fun ride. Steve had compared the whole mission to Coney Island. Damn was he right.

Bucky must be a sight to see right now, he shakes his head slightly with a twisted smile. He can feel the blood on his face, on his skin, on the wrong side of his flesh. He is shaking like a leaf and probably has the pallor of an albino. He laughs at the mental image he creates of himself. It is a warped, wet sound that barely comes out as more than a whisper and struggling rush of air.

The darkness is gray now, but at least it isn’t white. Or cold. He shudders still. Something to do with that blood-loss-whatever maybe? But last time he fell, so there’s that. This is much better.

A rough impact makes his exhale sharply and all the air leaves his lungs in a forced grunt.

Ah, here’s the fall.

He has no air left to laugh and instead chokes on the blood coating his tongue and dripping to the tile pressed against his check.

Ah, here’s the cold.

He knows what comes next. Of course he does, he’s been here before. It’s always patterns. Wash, rinse, repeat. Reload, cock, shoot. Instruction, mission, wipe. Fall, cold, nothing.

Ah...

Here’s the nothing.

Bucky shudders out a small exhale, barely feeling connected to any of his body parts anymore. Everything is numb and cold and this is a room so familiar to him, but he shouldn’t focus on that right now.

He can’t, it’d hurt too much. But at least it is somewhere he identifies with a feeling of _safety._ Yes, it is cold, but he knows where he is. He knows his _family_  would know where he is. He knows this is _base camp for James Barnes_. His parents would always laugh and tell him that, since the boy was sprouting up like a weed and always wanted food. His lips twitch into a small smile, and he knows that the energy his muscles need to move is less than next to none, but it’s enough.

It’s more than enough. It’s better than last time. This hand on his shoulder is better too. It is warm, for one, and gentle, not freezing and dragging him away from this blissful nothing to a bad place he doesn’t want to focus on right now.

He can’t, it’d hurt too much. There, it’s beyond freezing and everything hurts, _everything._ Being awake hurts. Being asleep hurts. Being conscious hurts. Being unconscious hurts. Being wiped is _agony._ That is when the warmth starts to completely go away. It is not any actual heat against his skin that fades, that was never there, it is the warmth in his chest from places like the one he is currently ‘kind-of-blood-loss-whatever-nothingness’ in. It is the heat in this hand on his body that rolls him over and takes his face away from the cold.

The cold is going away, and he can feel the warmth again. He can hear it in the way someone is saying his name.

His _real_ name.

It is better this time.

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, maybe I am a little evil, this just kind of went somewhere on it's own and I followed. It'll get better I promise!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you like where it is going and think I should continue!


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